lltllHmiHlllllllUIHHHlllHitMlfHHtlnUtHtllltUHiUUIIIUIIiiMmintHllUllilllllUII 

! 


'PS' 

35-23 


C5- 


CHEERFUL  AMERICANS 


BY 


CHARLES    BATTELL    LOOMIS 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE   FOUR-MASTED   CAT  'BOAT,"   ETC. 


twenty-four  illustrations,  by  Florence  Scovel  SUnn, 
Fanny  Y.  Cory,  F.  L.  Fitbian,  and  F.  R.  Gruger 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1903 


Copyright,  1903,  by  HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


The  stories  in  this  volume  were  copy- 
righted separately  as  follows  : 

A  Man  of  Putty  and  Araminta  and  the 
Automobile,  copyright,  1903,  by  the  Saturday 
Evening  Post,  Philadelphia.—  The  Man 
from  Ochre  Point  ',  New  Jersey,  and  There's 
Only  One  Noo  York,  copyright,  1901,  by 
The  Century  Co.  —  Too  Much  Boy,  copyright, 
IQOI,  by  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Phila- 
delphia. —  The  Cosmopolitanism  of  Mr. 
Powers,  copyright,  IQOI,  by  The  Century 


Co.  —  An  Eastern  Easter,  copyright, 
by  The  National  Press  Association. 
Man  in  the  Red  Sweater,  copyright  by  the 


man  in  ine  Kea  sweater,  copyright  by  the 
Brown  Book.— Little  Miss  Flutter  tys  Dis- 
sertation on  War  and  7^he  Expatriation 
of  Jonathan  Taintor,  copyright,  1901,  by 
The  Century  Co.— The  Memory  of  Car  lot  ta^ 
copyright,  1901,  by  the  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  Philadelphia.—  Truman  Wickwire's 
Gloves  and  The  Deception  of  Martha 
Tucker,  copyright,  IQOI,  by  The  Century 
Co.— The  Minister's  Henhouse,  copyright, 
1900,  by  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Phila- 
delphia.—77/<?  Men  Who  Swapped  Lan- 
guages, copyright,  1903,  by  the  New  Metro- 
politan Magazine.—  While  the  Automobile 
J?an  Down,  copyright,  1900,  by  The  Century 
Co. —  Veritable  Quidors,  copyright,  1902,  by 
the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Philadelphia. 

Published  July,  1903 


TO 

ISABELLA  ELDRIDGE 


NOTE 

THERE  is  a  great  difference  of  opinion  as 
to  the  desirability  of  prefaces.  There  are 
those  who  hold  that  a  preface  is  in  the  nature 
of  an  impertinence,  inasmuch  as  it  is  a 
species  of  unsolicited  talk  with  a  total 
stranger,  who  is  not  in  a  position  to  answer 
back — unless  he  be  a  reviewer. 

On  the  other  hand  there  are  those  who 
hold,  with  equal  insistence  on  the  point,  that 
a  preface  is  really  a  necessary  salutation,  a 
sort  of  "  Here's  luck  to  us  both!"  And 
these  last  would  as  soon  do  anything  most 
rude  as  fail  to  provide  their  books  with  a 
well-made  and  properly  adjusted  preface. 

And  truth  to  say,  readers  of  books  are 
also  divided  on  the  subject,  some  turning  to 
prefaces  with  every  mark  of  favor,  and 
others  turning  hastily  the  leaf  or  leaves 
that  contain  them. 


vi  Note 

Behold  then  my  quandary.  How  shall  I 
escape  offense  whatever  I  place,  or  do  not 
place,  before  these  stories  of  "  Cheerful 
Americans  "  ? 

Time  presses,  the  page  is  meager,  and 
what  remarks  I  might  have  made  concerning 
*ny  tales  must  go  unsaid,  in  order  that  I 
may  conclude  within  a  reasonable  limit. 

Well,  then:  to  the  haters  of  prefaces,  I 
say  that  it  would  ill  become  me  to  be  know- 
ingly impertinent  or  impertinently  knowing 
to  any  stranger — least  of  all  to  a  reviewer 
(  Heaven  bless  him ! ) . 

And  to  the  others,  since  you  think  it  a  part 
of  manners  for  the  author  to  say  something 
before  he  lets  go  of  the  book — "  Here's  to 
our  better  acquaintance !  " 

C.  B.  L. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  MAN  OF  PUTTY, i 

ARAMINTA  AND  THE  AUTOMOBILE,  ...  35 
THE  MAN  FROM  OCHRE  POINT,  NEW  JERSEY,  .  48 
*'  THERE'S  ONLY  ONE  Noo  YORK,"  61 

Too  MUCH  BOY, .75 

THE  COSMOPOLITANISM  OF  MR.  POWERS,      .        .      87 

AN  EASTERN  EASTER 105 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  RED  SWEATER,  .  .  .136 
LITTLE  Miss  FLUTTERLY'S  DISSERTATION  ON  WAR,  152 
THE  EXPATRIATION  OF  JONATHAN  TAINTOR,  .  158 
THE  MEMORY  OF  CARLOTTA,  ....  168 
TRUMAN  WICKWIRE'S  GLOVES,  .  .  .  .184 
THE  DECEPTION  OF  MARTHA  TUCKER,  .  .  194 
THE  MINISTER'S  HENHOUSE,  ....  215 
THE  MEN  WHO  SWAPPED  LANGUAGES,  .  .  230 
WHILE  THE  AUTOMOBILE  RAN  DOWN,  .  .  .  252 
VERITABLE  QUIDORS, 277 


vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 
' '  DO   YOU   THINK    YOU'VE    GOT    THE     HANG   OF     IT 

NOW?"  By  Florence  Scovel  Shinn.  Frontispiece 
11  Go  TO  COLUMBUS  AND  PREPARE  FOR  ANOTHER 

VACATION."  By  F.  L.  Fithian^  ...  34 
"YES,  N'  YORK'S  GOOD  ENOUGH  FOR  ME."  By 

Florence  Scovel  Shinn,          ....      49 

"  I    JUST     SAT    IN     MY    ROOM    AND    READ     IT."      By 

Florence  Scovel  Shinn,  .  .  .  .51 
"  I  DON'T  SPEAK  FRENCH."  By  Florence  Scovel 

Shinn, 54 

"  ONCE  IT  COST  ME  TEN  FRANCS  FOR  SUPPER."  By 

Florence  Scovel  Shinn,          .        .        .        -58 

"NOSING  AROUND   AMONG   A   LOT   OF  MONUMENTS." 

By  Florence  Scovel  Shinn 65 

"  I  THOUGHT  THAT   THE   SODA  WAS  PRETTY  GOOD." 

By  Florence  Scovel  Shinn ,     ....      69 

"  HE  CHATTERED  LIKE  A   CROW   IN   A    CORNFIELD." 

By  Florence  Scovel  Shinn,  ....  72 
11  MADE  ME  FEEL  THAT  I  WOULD  AMOUNT  TO 

SOMETHING.  "    By  Florence  Scovel  Shinn,  87 

"  I    SUPPOSE  YOU   ARE   LOOKING   FORWARD   TO    THE 

PARIS  EXPOSITION?"     By  Florence  Scovel 
Shinn,  .  ....        .99 

"  WHEN  DO  YOU  SUPPOSE  THE  BOER  WAR  WILL 

END?"    By  Florence  Scovel  Shinn,      .        .152 

ix 


Illustrations 


JONATHAN  TAINTOR.  By  Florence  Scovel  SJimn.  159 
"SOME  WOMEN  GOT  TALKIN'  TO  CYNTHY."  By 

Florence  Scovel  Shinn,          .        .        .        .162 

M  WE    HED     AOUR    FUST    AN*    LAST    QUAR'L."        By  I 

Florence  Scovel  Shinn,  ....  166 
"  OH,  JOHN,  HE'S  RUNNING  AWAY  ! "  By  Fanny  Y. 

Cory, 210 

"  MRS.  TUCKER  SAILED  LIKE  A  SPRITE  THROUGH 

THE  AIR."  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  .  .  .212 
TAIL-PIECE.  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  .  .  .214 
LOVE  BY  AUTO.  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  .  .  .  252 

"  A        GENTLEMAN         IN        IMMACULATE        EVENING 

CLOTHES."  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  .  .  .  260 

"  MR.  MARTIN,  HERE  I  GO."  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  268 

"I  THINK  HE'S  COMING."  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  270 
"  SEVERAL  BOYS  WERE  TRYING  TO  KEEP  UP  WITH 

THE  VEHICLE."  By  Fanny  Y.  Cory,  .  .  272 
"MERRY  CHRISTMAS"  and  "WOULD  YOU  BE 

WILLING  TO  GO   TO  PARIS  ON   A  BRIDAL  TRIP  ?  " 

By  Fanny  Y.  Cory, 274 

TAIL-PIECE.     By  Fanny   Y.  Cory,         .        .        .     276 

"  HE    HAD  TO    EKE    OUT    HIS    LIVING."      By   F.  R. 

Gruger 893 


CHEERFUL   AMERICANS 
A  Man  of  Putty 

AS  I  look  back  to  that  day,  not  two 
weeks  since,  it  seems  impossible  that 
any  of  the  ensuing  incidents  could  have 
taken  place,  but  when  I  see  that  there 
are  three  seats  at  table  where  there  used  to 
be  four  I  am  compelled  to  believe  that  it  is 
not  a  dream. 

It  is  all  so  like  a  romance  that  I  believe 
others  will  be  interested  in  it.  Mrs.  Docey 
says  that  I  am  lacking  in  reserve,  that  I 
should  not  invite  the  world  to  share  in  fam- 
ily secrets,  but  I  say  better  for  me  to  tell  the 
story  than  to  have  it  come  out  in  some  sen- 
sational sheet  with  names  spelled  wrong,  in- 
cidents distorted,  and  a  general  air  of  com- 
monplace vulgarity  spread  over  the  whole 
affair. 


A  Man  of  Putty 


Well,  to  begin.  Some  two  weeks  ago  I 
left  my  office  in  New  York  and  took  the 
train  for  the  place  in  the  country  where  my 
family  are  summering.  Perhaps  at  this 
point  I  should  say  that  my  family  consists 
of  Mrs.  Docey,  or  did  consist  of  Mrs. 
Docey,  Miss  Irene  Docey,  and  Miss  Anna 
Docey. 

I  left  New  York  and  after  two  or  three 
hours  in  the  cars  I  arrived  at  Barkinton, 
the  station  that  lies  nearest  to  our  summer 
place.  Hitched  near  the  depot  I  found  a 
horse  and  wagon  awaiting  me.  It  belongs 
to  one  of  my  neighbors  up  at  Hillton.  He 
goes  down  the  road  on  Saturdays  to  spend 
Sunday  with  his  family  at  "  the  shore,"  and 
he  leaves  his  horse  for  me  to  take  back. 
It  is  a  sort  of  Box  and  Cox  arrangement. 
I  go  down  on  the  early  Monday  morning 
train,  leaving  the  animal  hitched  as  before. 
My  neighbor  comes  up  soon  after  and  drives 
home.  Thus  livery  hire  is  saved  and  it  be- 
comes possible  for  him  to  show  his  neigh- 


A  Man  of  Putty 


borly  qualities  every  week.  In  the  winter 
he  and  his  wife  generally  spend  a  week  at 
our  New  York  house  and  then — we  pay  for 
the  horse. 

Sometimes  my  wife  or  one  of  my  daugh- 
ters comes  down  to  do  a  little  shopping  and 
goes  back  with  me,  but  on  this  particular 
occasion  the  horse  was  quite  alone.  I 
climbed  into  the  Concord  wagon  and  had 
driven  a  mile  on  my  way  when  I  saw  ahead 
of  me  a  well-put-up  man  of  about  thirty 
years  of  age.  These  details  of  course  came 
to  me  afterward,  but  I  give  them  first.  He 
was  good-looking,  and  had  acquired  that 
ease  of  manner  that  comes  to  those  who  are 
accustomed  to  have  their  own  way  in  all 
things.  I  have  no  such  ease  of  manner, 
alas  the  day. 

The  pedestrian  looked  over  his  shoulder 
at  me  and  stopped  and  waited  for  me  to 
come  abreast  of  him.  Now  it  happened  that 
just  before  I  met  him  my  horse  had  gone 
lame,  and  I  was  of  two  minds  as  to  whether 


A  Man  of  Putty 


or  no  I  ought  to  get  out  and  walk  to  relieve 
the  beast  of  some  of  his  burden.  I  am  not 
used  to  horses  and  I  may  be  unduly  sensitive 
and  overmerciful,  but  I  know  that  if  I  were 
lame  I  should  not  feel  like  pulling  a  man 
three  miles  uphill  through  dusty  roads,  and 
I  never  seem  to  realize  that  a  horse  is 
stronger  than  I.  However,  I  had  seriously 
thought  of  getting  out  at  the  next  pitch  of 
hill,  and  congratulated  myself  on  having 
forgotten  to  get  a  hundred  of  feed  for  my 
neighbor. 

When  I  'saw  the  man  stop  I  knew  that  I 
must  refuse  him  a  ride,  and  I  went  over  in 
my  mind  various  ways  of  couching  my  re- 
fusal— for  in  the  country  to  refuse  a  man  a 
lift  is  to  proclaim  yourself  too  mean  to 
live. 

My  horse  limped  on,  and  as  I  came  up  to 
the  stranger  he  turned  and  said,  "  How  do, 
Summer  Resident  ?  You  're  just  in  time.  I 
was  beginning  to  think  the  cars  never  ran 
on  this  road." 


A  Man  of  Putty 


Surely  a  breezy  salutation,  and  one  that 
made  my  seeming  churlishness  hard  to  carry 
off  successfully.  But  before  I  could  get  out 
and  tell  him  of  my  horse's  lameness  he  had 
jumped  into  the  wagon  with  an  agility  a 
little  out  of  the  common,  and  I  found  my- 
self traveling  along  with  a  two-hundred- 
pound  passenger — which  was  twice  as  bad 
as  a  bag  of  meal. 

"  I'm  sorry "  I  began. 

"  Sorry?  "  said  he,  taking  the  words  out 
of  my  mouth.  "  Sorry  for  anything  on  a 
day  like  this,  when  earth  and  air  and  sky 
are  uniting  in  a  trio  whose  harmony  is  rav- 
ishingly  sweet  ?  This  is  no  day  to  be  sorry, 
Summer  Resident.  What  sin  is  it  that 
makes  you  sorry?  " 

Now  I  leave  it  to  anybody  if  this  semi- 
poetic,  wholly  flippant  way  of  talking  was 
proper  toward  a  man  who  will  soon  see 
forty?  My  dignity  was  offended,  but  I  can 
never  make  a  man  understand  when  my  dig- 
nity has  received  a  stab.  He  always  seems 


A  Man  of  Putty 


to  think  it  cause  for  laughter,  and  I  saw  that 
I  could  not  be  dignified  with  this  obtrusive 
but  genial  man.  So  I  plopped  the  words 
out  quick :  "  My  horse  has  gone  lame  and  I 
was  going  to  get  out  at  the  beginning  of 
this  hill." 

"  Oh,  that's  what  you  were  sorry  for  ?  " 
said  he  with  an  unctuous  laugh.  "  Sorry 
that  my  coming  would  prevent  your  doing 
it  ?  Now,  my  dear  Mister  Man,  you  simply 
must  not  treat  me  as  company.  You  have 
given  me  a  lift,  following  a  law  of  the  coun- 
try road,  but  you  must  not  feel  called  upon 
to  stay  and  amuse  me.  Take  your  little  con- 
stitutional up  the  hill  and  I  will  drive  slowly, 
and  when  we  have  reached  the  level  you  must 
get  in  again,  because  it  is  on  the  level  road 
that  we  get  in  our  best  licks  in  this  hill 
country." 

He  stopped — and  I  actually  got  out. 
Well,  it  was  as  much  on  account  of  the  horse 
as  anything.  It  would  have  been  cruel  to 
make  him  pull  three  hundred  and  ten  pounds 


A  Man  of  Putty 


uphill,  and  my  new-found  friend  was  evi- 
dently in  no  mind  to  alight. 

"  I'm  getting  out,"  said  I  with  just  a  ves- 
tige of  dignity,  "  because  I  think  the  horse 
has  too  heavy  a  load." 

"  The  act  does  you  credit/'  said  the 
stranger  with  an  approving  smile.  "  What 
is  your  name,  anyhow  ?  I  hate  Mister  Man 
and  Summer  Resident." 

"  My  name  is  Docey,"  said  I. 

"  From  the  same  root  as  docile,  or  I'll  eat 
my  hat,"  said  he.  "  You  are  just  the  man 
who  would  be  merciful  to  his  beast.  I  wish 
I  were  half  as  merciful.  Now  that  you 
speak  of  it  I  believe  that  the  horse  is  limp- 
ing, and  I  guess  it  is  because  he  has  a  stone 
in  his  foot.  You  just  lift  his  forefoot  and 
see." 

Now  I  hate  to  touch  a  horse,  having  been 
born  and  brought  up  in  the  city,  but  there 
was  something  in  this  man  that  compelled 
me  to  lay  aside  fear,  and  I  lifted  the  horse's 
foot,  and,  sure  enough,  there  lay  a  stone 


8  A  Man  of  Putty 

firmly  imbedded  between  the  shoe  and  that 
little  hillock  that  lies  in  the  center  of  the 
hoof.  I  got  the  stone  out,  but  not  before 
the  horse  had  stepped  on  me  and  given  me 
a  painful  bruise  that  brought  the  tears  to  my 
eyes. 

"  What,  crying  a  day  like  this?  "  said  my 
Young  Man  of  the  Sea.  "  What's  personal 
pain,  man,  to  the  thought  that  you  have  re- 
lieved the  horse?  Now  climb  in  and  we  will 
make  the  old  fellow  show  his  mettle." 

I  attempted  to  climb  in  on  the  right  side, 
the  better  to  drive,  but  he  said,  "  No,  get 
in  on  the  left.  You  must  allow  me  to  re- 
lieve you  of  any  work  until  we  reach  your 
home.  I  haven't  driven  in  weeks,  and  this 
is  just  the  day  to  get  good  work  out  of  the 
good  animal." 

I  got  into  that  carriage  feeling  that  the 
stranger  was  actually  kind  to  allow  me  the 
privilege.  Not  once  had  I  thought  that  he 
would  whip  up  and  drive  away  with  horse 
nnd  wagon.  I  read  him  for  what  he  was 


A  Man  of  Putty 


then,  and  nothing  that  has  happened  since 
has  made  me  change  my  opinion.  He  was 
a  masterful  man  and  I  am  not.  Perhaps  in 
me  he  saw  one  on  whom  he  could  play.  Per- 
haps if  he  had  been  masterful  without  humor 
he  would  not  have  done  what  he  did,  but  it 
was  a  zestful  day,  and  he  was  playing  cat  to 
my  mouse  and  enjoying  it. 

I  sat  down,  he  applied  the  whip,  and  the 
horse  leaped  forward  at  a  pace  that  neither 
my  neighbor  nor  myself  had  ever  suspected 
was  within  his  ability. 

I  was  now  able  to  study  my  carriage  mate, 
and  I  marked  him  for  a  man  who,  if  ship- 
wrecked on  an  unhabited  island  in  the  South 
Pacific,  would  be  king  of  that  island  in  six 
months.  He  had  gray-green  eyes,  a  vigor- 
ous chin,  and  a  mouth  whose  grimness  was 
softened  by  a  humorous  curve  at  the  tail  of 
his  lips.  A  large,  straight  nose  and  a  gener- 
ous ear  showed  him  to  be  anything  but  a 
mean  man,  and  his  talk  gave  evidence  to 
some  cultivation  wrapped  up  in  a  large 


io  A  Man  of  Putty 

amount  of  slang  and  flippancy  that  often 
annoyed  me. 

"  My  name  is  Tolmach,"  said  he,  although 
I  had  not  asked  him.  "  Jack  Tolmach.  I 
believe  I  am  descended  from  the  Tollemache- 
Tollemaches  of  England,  but  I  don't  care  a 
rap.  They  couldn't  wag  me  if  we  met.  I'm 
a  wagger  from  the  word  go.  I  can't  and  I 
won't  play  second  fiddle  to  anyone."  Here 
he  broke  off  at  a  tangent  to  say,  "  Why,  this 
is  no  plug.  When  I  saw  you  coming  I  said 
he  was  a  plug.  A  horse  is  not  so  much  what 
his  component  parts  are  as  he  is  what  gets 
to  him  through  the  reins.  You're  an  easy- 
going, good-hearted  foddy-doddy.  No  of- 
fense; I'm  just  explaining  why  the  horse  is 
going  his  fastest  now.  The  reins  are  tele- 
graph wires  and  you,  the  driver,  send  mes- 
sages to  the  horse.  You  say,  '  Old  horse- 
You  -  are  -  lame  -  and  -  not  -  strong  -  Take  - 
your-time- Answer/  And  '  Old  Horse  '  an- 
swers by  drooping  his  head  and  ambling.  I 
step  into  the  telegraph  office  and  I  say,  *  My- 


A  Man  of  Putty  n 

horse  -  Git  -  up  -  and  -  git  -  No  -  answer  - 
required  -  No  -  back  -  talk  -  of  -  any  -  kind/ 
And  he  goes.'* 

"  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  I, 
amused  in  spite  of  myself,  although  his  pic- 
ture of  me  had  been  totally  unlike  the  one 
I  should  have  drawn  of  myself.  Well,  per- 
haps my  picture  of  me  would  have  been  as 
unlike  the  real  Me  as  his  was. 

"  When  do  you  dine,  noon  or  night  ?  " 
asked  he,  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  We  dine  at  night,"  said  I,  wondering 
what  was  coming  next. 

What  was  coming  next  came  quickly. 

"  That's  good.  This  day  and  this  drive 
have  given  me  the  appetite  of  a  god.  I  dined 
at  the  hotel  in  the  town  back  there,  but  I 
wouldn't  know  it.  Your  hotel  dinners  are 
as  like  as  canned  peas  and  just  about  as  un- 
satisfactory. Say,  if  a  man  were  to  make 
a  composite  photograph  of  every  country 
hotel  dinner  in  the  United  States  the  com- 
posite would  be  like  each  separate  picture. 


12  A  Man  of  Putty 

In  fact,  he  could  get  his  composite  from  the 
first  picture  he  took.  Going  to  have  any 
company  to-night  ?  " 

"  No,  not  any,"  said  I  unsuspectingly. 

"  Wrong,"  said  he,  bursting  out  into  a 
laugh  so  hearty  and  infectious  that  I  laughed 
with  him.  "  Wrong,  for  I  am  going  to  dine 
with  you.  I  told  you  my  appetite  had  been 
sharpened." 

Some  might  have  imagined  at  this  point 
that  Mr.  Tolmach  was  out  of  his  senses,  but 
I  had  no  such  thought.  I  had  sometimes 
wondered  what  would  happen  if  I  were  to 
go  into  some  city  house  and  say,  "  I've  come 
to  dinner."  He  was  a  good-humored  and 
absolutely  audacious  practical  joker  who  had 
found  in  me  an  easy  prey. 

"  Well,  really,  you  seem  to  have  no  trouble 
in  asking  for  what  you  want,"  said  I,  and 
that  was  all  I  could  say.  I  could  not,  I  liter- 
ally could  not  say  to  him,  "  Mr.  Tolmach,  I 
do  not  know  you  and  I  do  not  keep  a  public 
house."  That  would  have  given  him  a 


A  Man  of  Putty  13 

chance  to  say,  "  So  much  the  better.     A  se- 
lect few  is  better  than  a  motley  crowd." 

"  Why,  no,"  said  he;  "  of  course  I  have 
no  trouble  asking  for  what  I  want.  As  I 
take  it,  we  are  put  into  the  world  and  are 
given  to  understand  that  we  are  entitled  to 
as  much  of  the  world  as  we  can  get.  Some 
men  get  what  they  want  by  purchase,  some 
by  grabbing,  and  some  by  good-humoredly 
but  firmly  asking.  I  never  grab  and  I  often 
purchase,  but  I  find  that  there  are  few  who 
can  refuse  a  well-modulated  request  with  a 
touch  of  human  nature  in  it.  I  began  life 
as  a  poor  boy  in  the  country.  My  parents 
died  when  I  was  ten,  and  I  was  cast  on  the 
world  knowing  how  to  read,  with  the  multi- 
plication table  mine,  with  a  good  natural 
fist,  and  plenty  of  good  humor  that  would 
stand  strains.  Lots  of  men  have  good 
humor  that  is  good  to  look  at,  but  you 
mustn't  touch  it.  It's  what  I  call  touchy 
good  humor.  The  real  good  humor  is  made 
of  India-rubber,  and  you  can  jump  on  it  and 


14  A  Man  of  Putty 

pinch  it  and  it  won't  alter  the  shape  a 
bit." 

"  Turn  here,"  said  I,  for  we  were  now 
come  to  the  little  settlement  that  announces 
the  nearness  of  my  summer  home. 

"  Good,  I  see  your  house.  That  white 
one  with  the  ampelopsis  on  it.  Am  I 
right?" 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  Go  on  with  the  story 
of  your  life." 

"  That's  all.  I  could  read,  write,  and 
cipher,  and  couldn't  get  angry,  and  the  rest 
was  easy.  I  can  read  a  little  better  now  and 
have  read  a  good  deal;  I  can  write  my  name 
to  a  check  for  fifty  thousand  dollars,  which 
shows  that  I  understand  addition  pretty 
well,  and  I  have  two  hundred  pounds  of 
good  nature  as  against  the  sixty  I  had  when 
a  boy  of  ten.  I  know  this  country  pretty 
well  from  Maine  to  Washington,  and  I  can 
tell  a  Van  Dyck  from  a  Claude  Lorrain  in 
any  gallery  in  Europe.  Is  this  where  we 
get  out?" 


A  Man  of  Putty  15 

I  may  not  be  believed,  but  by  this  time  I 
should  have  been  sorry  to  see  the  man  go 
on  his  way.  He  interested  me.  He  hum- 
bled my  pride,  and  I  took  the  humbling  in 
good  part.  I  dare  say  that  among  the  Brah- 
mins of  Boston  he  would  not  have  passed, 
but  I  am  not  a  Brahmin  of  Boston.  I  lived 
in  Boston  for  two  years  and  not  a  Brahmin 
knew  or  cared.  But  I  recognized  in  Mr. 
Tolmach  a  man  who  was  not  hidebound  by 
conventions,  and  I  thought  that  an  hour  or 
two  of  him  would  be  in  the  nature  of  enter- 
tainment for  us  all,  so  I  legalized  his  self- 
invitation  by  seconding  it  graciously. 

The  horse  disposed  of,  I  invited  Mr.  Tol- 
mach to  sit  on  the  veranda  while  I  went  in 
and  told  Mrs.  Docey  of  his  arrival  and  ex- 
plained his  nature  to  her.  I  half  expected 
him  to  follow  me  in,  but  when  he  did  not  I 
recognized  that  I  had  done  him  an  injus- 
tice. 

My  two  daughters  had  gone  out  for  a 
walk  and  Mrs.  Docey  was  lying  down,  but 


1 6  A  Man  of  Putty 

she  arose,  and  when  she  had  dressed  she 
came  down  to  the  veranda  where  Mr.  Tol- 
mach  and  I  were  rendering  cigars  value- 
less. 

When  I  presented  my  new-found  friend 
I  half  expected  some  hifalutin  speech,  but  he 
bowed  respectfully  and  murmured  some- 
thing as  unintelligible  as  anyone  could  have 
wished.  He  also  offered  Mrs.  Docey  one  of 
my  chairs. 

We  talked  of  many  things  and  I  could  see 
that  Mrs.  Docey  was  impressed  with  him. 
While  we  were  talking  my  daughters  re- 
turned from  their  walk.  Irene  is  tall  and 
very  pretty,  Anna  is  short  and  interesting- 
looking.  He  bowed  to  both,  but  addressed 
himself  to  Irene,  and  in  a  short  time  Anna 
excused  herself  and  went  into  the  house,  and 
I  saw  that  she  was  not  pleased  with  our 
guest. 

He  was  the  life  of  the  feast  when  we  all 
assembled  in  the  dining  room.  He  had  in- 
deed been  everywhere  and  he  had  brought 


A  Man  of  Putty  17 

something  away  from  every  place.  He  was 
not  like  that  business  man  in  western  New 
York  who  went  to  Venice  and  was  asked 
upon  his  return  what  he  thought  of  the  city 
of  the  doges. 

"  Had  no  chance  to  think  anything.  Saw 
it  under  adverse  circumstances.  Streets 
were  literally  flooded.  Yes,  there  was  one 
thing  struck  me.  The  dagos  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  flood  to  rig  up  a  lot  of  canoes, 
and  they  were  making  hay  while  the  floods 
lasted.  But  I  left  soon." 

Mr.  Tolmach  was  not  like  that  man.  He 
knew  the  point  of  view  appropriate  to  each 
place  he  had  visited  in  this  and  the  old  coun- 
try, and  I  was  sincerely  glad  that  I  had 
picked  him  up— or,  rather,  that  he  had 
picked  me  up  and  brought  me  home  in  time 
for  such  a  pleasant  dinner. 

Coffee  was  served  on  the  veranda,  and 
just  about  the  time  that  I  supposed  he  was 
going  to  rise  and  take  his  departure — for  he 
had  told  me  that  he  was  due  at  Columbus, 


1 8  A  Man  of  Putty 

Ohio,  the  forepart  of  the  week,  his  vacation 
being  at  an  end — he  suggested  that  we  take 
a  walk,  and  as  Anna  did  not  care  to  make  one 
of  the  party  Mrs.  Docey  and  I  walked  side 
by  side,  and  he  and  Irene  walked  ahead. 
The  west  was  yet  stained  with  the  sunset 
dyes  and  the  moon  was  ready  to  light  up 
the  earth  as  soon  as  the  sun  should  have  en- 
tirely given  over  his  duties.  A  crisp  west- 
erly breeze  made  it  just  the  evening  for  a 
walk,  but  I,  thinking  only  of  the  conven- 
tions, said  to  Mrs.  Docey,  "  When  is  this 
man  going  ? "  and  was  surprised  to  have 
her  reply,  "  I  don't  care  if  he  never  goes. 
I  like  him." 

"  Anna  doesn't,"  said  I. 

"  Anna  is  too  young,"  was  her  answer, 
given  so  impressively  that  I  turned  and 
looked  at  her.  She  returned  my  stare  and 
said,  "  Irene  likes  him,  and  that  is  more  to 
the  point." 

I  shook  my  head  flabbergastedly. 
"Women  are  enigmas,"  said  I. 


A  Man  of  Putty  19 

"  Why,"  said  Mrs.  Docey,  lowering  her 
already  low  voice,  "  I  don't  mean  that  I 
shouldn't  wish  him  to  furnish  references, 
but  if  I  can  read  character  at  all  he  is  funda- 
mentally a  nice  man  and  a  manly  man,  and 
he  is  very  fond  of  Irene.  It  is  a  case  of  love 
at  first  sight  with  him." 

"  Then  the  sooner  he  is  out  of  sight  the 
better,"  said  I.  I  had  a  vision  of  my  Irene 
gracing  an  Ohio  home,  and  I  did  not  like  it. 

We  had  now  come  to  a  wood  road  that 
leads  down  to  the  trolley  road  that  connects 
Winston  and  Barkinton.  Irene  picked  a 
wild-flower  by  the  waning  light  and  brought 
it  to  her  mother  to  ask  some  question  con- 
cerning its  species,  and  I  took  the  opportu- 
nity to  draw  Mr.  Tolmach  aside. 

"  I  don't  want  to  seem  rude,"  said  I,  "  but 
the  last  train  from  Barkinton  leaves  at  8.20, 
and  the  last  connecting  trolley  will  be  along 
in  a  few  minutes.  This  wood  road  leads 
to  the  track.  If  you  are  thinking  of  going 


2O  A  Man  of  Putty 

"  I  gave  up  that  thought  just  about  the 
time  the  roast  was  served, "  said  Mr.  Tol- 
mach  pleasantly  but  firmly.  "  I  will  admit 
that  I  forced  myself  upon  you  in  the  road 
and  I  have  no  intention  of  forcing  myself 
still  further,  but  if  you  cannot  accommodate 
me  for  the  night  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  of 
some  farmer  who  does  not  object  to  a 
boarder " 

Mrs.  Docey  had  overheard  the  last  part  of 
his  remark,  and  she  came  forward  at  this 
juncture  and  said : 

"  I  think  that  Mr.  Parker  has  a  room 
vacant,  but  he  had  gone  to  Riverton  to-night. 
If  Mr.  Tolmach  cares  to  accept " 

There  was  no  help  for  it  now  if  Mrs. 
Docey  had  come  to  his  aid,  so  I  interrupted 
and  said: 

"Why — er — yes,  we'd  be — er — pleased 
to  have  you  stay  overnight.  There's  a  tram 
that  connects  with  one  for  the  West  in  the 
morning." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Mr.  Tol- 


A  Man  of  Putty  21 

mach,  speaking  to  me  but  looking  at  Irene, 
and  the  last  ray  of  sunlight  having  vanished 
from  the  west  we  walked  home.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Docey  slept  peacefully  that  night, 
but  I  did  not.  I  accused  myself  of  being  a 
surnph,  whatever  that  is,  and  I  wished  that 
I  had  whipped  up  or  ever  I  had  seen  the 
odious  Mr.  Tolmach.  He  was  just  as 
breezy  as  he  had  been,  but  I  wanted  to  pro- 
tect my  daughter  from  every  breeze  that 
blows. 

Breakfast  is  generally  a  very  pleasant 
affair.  Both  Irene  and  Anna  have  a  way 
of  investing  a  very  small  incident  with  a 
temporary  interest  that  makes  for  the  en- 
livenment  of  a  meal,  but  this  morning  every 
time  I  looked  at  either  Irene  or  Mr.  Tol- 
mach I  felt  a  twinge  of  pain.  She  seemed 
to  dwell  so  on  his  words,  and  all  his  utter- 
ances seemed  intended  for  her  approval. 
Mrs.  Docey  prospered  his  jests  with  abun- 
dant laughter,  and  even  Anna  smiled  at  his 
Western  breeziness.  Not  one  of  my  family 


22  A  Man  of  Putty 

understood  that  I  was  playing  the  role  of 
dignified  parent,  and  after  a  while  I  gave 
over  playing  it  and  allowed  myself  to  be 
amused  at  Mr.  Tolmach's  sallies,  and  even 
joined  with  him  in  airy  persiflage. 

After  breakfast  I  intimated  to  Mr.  Tol- 
mach  that  we  drove  to  church  in  Barkinton 
at  ten  o'clock,  but  that  if  he  wished  to  catch 
the  train  I  could  carry  him  down  in  time 
for  it. 

"  Trainfe  run  every  day,  Mr.  Docey,"  said 
he;- "but  days  like  this  don't  occur  more 
than  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.  I  am  my 
own  master,  and  to-morrow  will  suit  my 
business  as  well  as  to-day." 

Just  then  Irene  appeared  at  the  door  and 
said: 

"  Mr.  Tolmach,  if  you  really  want  to  see 
the  old-fashioned  garden  I'll  take  you 
there." 

Again  that  twinge,  but  I  did  not  stop 
them,  although  I  knew  that  they  were  un- 
chaperoned,  and  that  an  old-fashioned  gar- 


A  Man  of  Putty  23 

den  is  one  of  the  best  places  in  the  world 
for  love-making.  I  proposed  to  Mrs.  Docey 
in  an  old-fashioned  garden. 

Anna  had  gone  to  her  room  to  prepare  her 
Bible  lesson,  and  Mrs.  Docey  was  in  the 
kitchen  superintending  the  making  of  some 
intricate  dessert.  I  sat  down  by  a  window 
overlooking  the  garden  and  tried  to  interest 
myself  with  a  current  magazine,  but  if  my 
eyes  fell  on  the  pictures  and  text  they  saw 
nothing  but  the  picture  in  the  garden:  the 
tall  and  graceful  Irene,  and  the  type  of 
American  resolution  at  her  side,  as  they 
wandered  along  the  winding  walks  and  pre- 
tended to  interest  themselves  in  hollyhocks 
and  love-in-a-mist  when  love  was  in  plain 
sight — to  me  at  least. 

What  was  it  my  duty  to  do?  Should  I 
rush  out  into  the  garden  and  say,  "  Here, 
Mr.  Tolmach,  if  you  are  going  to  propose 
to  my  daughter  wait  until  you  know  her  bet- 
ter !  "  He  might  not  be  going  to  do  it,  and 
I  should  have  added  another  success  to  my 


24  A  Man  of  Putty 

long-  series  of  ridiculous  parts.  I  could  not 
call  Irene  into  the  house  on  any  pretense 
whatever,  for  I  am  not  good  at  pretending. 
I  could  merely  sit  at  the  window  and  lament 
that  I  am  not  another  type  of  man. 

It  may  have  been  a  half -hour  later  or  it 
may  have  been  the  next  afternoon  that  Mrs. 
Docey  went  to  the  back  piazza  and  called 
Irene  in,  excusing  herself  to  Mr.  Tolmach. 
Really,  it  sounded  as  if  she  thought  that  Mr. 
Tolmach  had  a  claim  on  the  girl  already, 
and  that  she  must  ask  permission  to 
borrow  her  daughter  for  a  few  brief 
moments. 

Irene's  return  to  the  house  was  the  signal 
for  Mr.  Tolmach  to  return  also,  only 
whereas  she  went  to  the  kitchen  he  came  to 
the  front  door  and  walked  into  the  library 
where  I  was  sitting. 

"Well,  this  is  another  of  those  days 
Browning  talks  about,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  he. 

I  told  him  tartly  that  I  didn't  know  that 
Browning  talked  about  any  days;  that  I 


A  Man  of  Putty  25 

didn't  pretend  to  follow  Browning,  but  that 
there  was  too  much  east  wind  to  suit  me. 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  ill  nature,  but 
seated  himself  in  an  easy  chair,  reached  over 
for  a  cigar,  and  then  withdrew  his  hand  in 
so  whimsical  a  way  that  I  said,  "  Help  your- 
self." 

"Join  me,"  said  he,  quite  as  if  he  were 
presenting  me  with  the  box,  and  we  lit  from 
the  same  match. 

I  smoked  feverishly;  he  as  calmly  as  a 
stage  detective.  He  blew  countless  wreaths 
into  the  study  air  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  long  reach  of  hills  in  a  con- 
tiguous State,  hills  twenty  miles  away,  but 
the  village's  most  valuable  asset  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  summer  visitor.  Oh, 
if  he  would  only  go  over  those  hills  and 
vanish  in  the  illimitable  purple! 

"  Ever  think  about  your  daughter's  going 
off?"  said  he  finally. 

I  stabbed  a  pen  into  the  desk,  but  I  didn't 
say  anything. 


26  A  Man  of  Putty 

"  Don't  wonder  at  it  at  all,"  said  he  sym- 
pathetically. "  I'd  feel  just  the  same  way  if 
I  had  a  daughter  like  Miss  Irene."  He  of- 
fered me  a  light  for  my  cigar,  which  after 
violently  puffing  for  a  season  I  had  allowed 
to  go  out. 

When  my  weed  had  resumed  consump- 
tion he  looked  me  full  in  the  face  and  said : 
"  Well,  there's  no  use  of  mincing  words  or 
of  wasting  'em.  I'm  hard  hit.  If  anyone 
had  told  me  last  night  that  the  little  man  in 
the  Concord  wagon  drawn  by  a  limping 
horse  was  going  to  carry  me  to  where  they 
would  make  a  target  of  my  heart  I  should 
have  refused  to  get  in,  for  I  supposed  that 
I  was  a  confirmed  bachelor  and  gloried  in 
the  supposition.  But  I  felt  like  imposing 
myself  on  you  just  because  it  struck  my  hu- 
mor, and  here  I  am,  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  your  daughter  satisfies  all  my  ideas  of 
what  a  woman  should  be.  Now  I  expect 
you  to  say  No  because  you  don't  know 
whether  I  was  born  yesterday  or  have  been 


A  Man  of  Putty  27 

a  criminal  in  five  or  six  previous  existences, 
but  I'm  going  to  give  you  time  to  verify 
me.  I'm  going  to  let  you  call  up  the  Gov- 
ernor of  this  State,  who  happens  to  be  my 
brother-in-law,  and  if  you're  not  satisfied 
with  his  recommendation  I  can  connect  you 
with  solid  business  men  in  Stamford  and 
New  Britain  and  Waterbury.  I'll  get  'em 
before  they  go  to  church,  for  that's  the 
kind  of  men  all  of  'em  are — churchgoers. 
I  haven't  been  myself,  but  if  Miss  Irene 
wants  me  to  I'll  become  whatever  she 
is  as  soon  as  I've  read  up  on  the  re- 
quirements. If  you  are  convinced  that 
I  am  what  I  say  I  am,  a  successful  man 
of  business  who  is  just  entering  on  his  first 
bit  of  romance,  I'll  take  to-morrow's  train 
for  Columbus  and  I'll  arrange  my  business 
so  that  I  can  leave  it  indefinitely,  and  then 
I'll  come  back  here  and  make  a  father-in- 
law  of  you  in  ten  minutes  by  the  clock.  I 
have  asked  your  daughter  and  she  is  willing 
to  abide  by  your  decision  even  if  it  is  ad- 


28  A  Man  of  Putty 

verse.  She  also  said  something  about  wait- 
ing. But  there  won't  be  any  need  of  wait- 
ing, and  I  know  what  your  decision  will  be 
just  as  I  knew  yesterday  that  you  would 
bring  me  home  to  dinner.  As  for  waiting, 
if  we  decided  to  do  that  I'd  have  to  go  to 
Columbus,  and  neither  you  nor  she  would 
have  a  chance  to  study  my  character,  and  at 
the  end  of  six  months  we  shouldn't  have  ad- 
vanced a  step.  This  is  all  I  have  to  say  ex- 
cept that  I  sounded  Mrs.  Docey  just  after 
breakfast  and  she  repressed  a  pleased  smile. 
Now,  if  you'll  give  me  the  telephone  book 
I'll  show  you  what  number  to  call  up." 

He  ended  his  long  speech,  which  I  had 
heard  in  silence,  and  I  know  that  there  are 
those  who  will  say  that  I  ought  to  have 
jumped  up  quickly  and  thrown  him  out,  but 
I  weigh  one  hundred  and  ten  pounds,  and  he 
weighs  at  least  two  hundred,  and  it's  all 
solid.  If  I  had  taken  him  and  flung  him  he 
would  not  have  gone  far.  He  would  have 
come  back.  I  should  once  more  have  been 


A  Man  of  Putty  29 

ridiculous.  I  determined  to  submit  grace- 
fully. He  showed  me  the  telephone  number 
of  the  Governor  of  Connecticut,  a  sterling 
man  for  whom  I  had  voted  gladly,  and  I 
called  him  up  and  found  him  just  about 
starting  for  church. 

I  told  him  who  I  was,  and  he  gave  the 
following  replies  to  my  questions : 

"Know  Mr.  Tolmach— Jack  Tolmach? 
Of  course  I  do.  He's  my  brother-in-law — 
my  wife's  brother." 

It  was  hard  after  this  declaration  of  re- 
lationship for  me  to  ask  in  cold  blood 
whether  my  visitor  was  all  right,  but  one  can 
say  things  over  miles  of  wire  that  would 
sound  awkward  in  a  face-to-face  conversa- 
tion, and  I  put  my  query. 

"  Good  as  wheat.  Fine  as  silk,"  came  the 
answer. 

Here  someone  else  seemed  to  have  come 
near  the  telephone,  for  the  Governor  began 
to  laugh  and  I  heard  feminine  laughter. 

The  Governor  continued.    "  What's  your 


30  A  Man  of  Putty 

hurry,  Mr.  Docey?  Indorsed  any  paper  of 
his?" 

"  No,  oh  no,  but  he  wants  to  marry  my 
daughter." 

Again  I  heard  laughter.  It  seemed  to 
strike  the  Governor  as  queer  that  I  should 
telephone  instead  of  writing,  but  Mr.  Tol- 
mach  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  his  busi- 
ness and  the  mails  are  slow. 

I  explained  this  to  him.  I  said :  "  Mr. 
Tolmach  wants  to  get  back  to  Columbus  and 
I  don't  know  him  as  well  as — as  well  as  I 
hope  to — and  he  suggested  you  as  a  well- 
known  man,  and  I  voted  for  you,  so  I 
thought  I  might  call  you  up  even  though  you 
never  met  me.  One  has  to  be  careful  about 
one's  daughter." 

The  Governor:  I  didn't  get  that  last. 
One  has  to  be  what  ? 

Myself :  One  has  to  be  careful  about  one's 
daughter. 

The  Governor  (after  a  whispered  consul- 
tation with  the  one  who  was  near — probably 


A  Man  of  Putty  31 

his  wife)  :  Yes,  you  are  right.  One  can't 
be  too  careful  about  one's  daughter.  Well, 
I  can  recommend  Jack.  He's  self-made  and 
he's  always  had  his  own  way,  but  he  gains 
his  will  gracefully. 

Myself :  Oh,  yes,  I  know  that.  Well,  then, 
you  would  advise  me  to  let  them  get  mar- 
ried? 

The  Governor :  Why,  of  course,  that  rests 
with  you,  but  Jack  is  all  right.  How  long 
have  you  known  him  ? 

Myself:  Oh,  since  last  night.  I  feel  I 
know  him  pretty  well,  but  I  wanted  to  make 
sure. 

The  Governor:  Your  cautiousness  does 
you  credit,  but  it's  unnecessary  in  Jack's  case. 
He's  a  good  boy  and  will  make  a  good  son. 
I'll  write,  but  I  must  go  now.  The  Gover- 
nor is  never  late  to  church,  you  know. 

I  caught  the  ring  of  immoderate  laughter, 
and  then  I  was  cut  off.  There  had  been  no 
chance  of  collusion.  I  had  heard  the  Gov- 
ernor mate  several  political  speeches,  for 


32  A  Man  of  Putty 

although  my  business  is  in  New  York,  I  am 
interested  in  Connecticut  politics,  and  I 
recognized  his  voice. 

I  felt  that  to  refuse  my  sanction  after  Mr. 
Tolmach  had  received  this  clean  bill  of 
health  would  be  churlish,  a  thing  that  I  al- 
ways try  to  avoid.  I  had  been  in  the  box, 
but  the  door  was  open,  and  Tolmach  had 
heard  most  of  my  replies,  and  had  gathered 
the  gist  of  the  conversation.  He  looked 
radiant. 

"That's  just  like  Bill,  said  he.  "Al- 
ways ready  to  oblige,  and  just  as  approach- 
able as  if  he  was  the  most  insignificant  man 
in  the  State.  That  was  his  wife,  probably, 
who  was  laughing.  She  has  a  keen  sense  of 
humor." 

"  Well,  so  have  I,"  I  replied,  "  but  I  don't 
see  what  there  was  to  laugh  at.  My  ques- 
tions were  perfectly  natural  in  a  father. 
Perhaps  the  laughter  was  a  little  bit  hys- 
terical, you  being  her  brother." 

At  this  juncture  the  door  opened  and 


A  Man  of  Putty  33 

Irene  and  her  mother  came  in.  I  made  a 
sign  for  Tolmach  to  step  out,  and  he  like  a 
good  fellow  did  so. 

After  he  had  closed  the  door  behind  him 
and  I  heard  his  manly  step  on  the  veranda 
I  said:  "  Irene,  do  you  love  Mr.  Tolmach?  " 

She  hid  her  face  on  her  mother's  shoulder 
and  burst  into  tears,  but  nodded  her  head 
so  emphatically  that  I  could  not  mistake  her 
meaning,  much  as  I  should  have  liked  to. 
It  will  be  seen  that  I  was  not  entirely  rec- 
onciled to  the  new  condition  of  things. 

Mrs.  Docey  nodded  her  own  head  ecstati- 
cally, and  with  the  firmness  that  I  try  to  in- 
fuse into  my  disposition  at  critical  times  I 
called  Mr.  Tolmach  in. 

He  came,  his  countenance  radiant.  He 
looked  at  Irene  and  her  face  kindled  as  the 
evening  star  kindles  after  the  glance  of  the 
sun.  That  may  sound  poetic,  but  Irene 
would  make  anyone  poetic.  I  determined 
to  give  her  away  with  dignity.  I  went  over 
to  her  and  kissed  her.  Then  I  kissed  her 


34  A  Man  of  Putty 

mother.  Then  I  shook  hands  with  Tolmach 
and  said,  with  just  a  touch  of  a  quaver  in 
my  voice : 

"  Go  to  Columbus  and  prepare  for  another 
vacation." 

And  now  to-day,  two  weeks  later,  I  am 
writing  this  and  the  Governor  and  his  wife 
are  on  their  way  to  the  station.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tolmach  left  an  hour  since,  bound  for 
Europe,  where  they  can  compare  Claude 
Lorrains  with  Van  Dycks,  and  tell  which  is 
a.  portrait  and  which  a  landscape  at  sight. 


GO  TO  COLUMBUS  AND  PREPARE  FOR 
ANOTHER  VACATION."— P.   34- 


Araminta    and    the    Auto- 
mobile 

SOME  persons  spend  their  surplus  on 
works  of  art ;  some  spend  it  on  Italian 
gardens  and  pergolas;  there  are  those  who 
sink  it  in  golf,  and  I  have  heard  of  those  who 
expended  it  on  charity. 

None  of  these  forms  of  getting  away  with 
money  appealed  to  Araminta  and  myself.  As 
soon  as  it  was  ascertained  that  the  automo- 
bile was  practicable  and  would  not  cost  a 
king's  ransom,  I  determined  to  devote  my 
savings  to  the  purchase  of  one. 

Araminta  and  I  live  in  a  suburban  town; 
she  because  she  loves  Nature  and  I  because  I 
love  Araminta.  We  have  been  married  for 
five  years. 

I  am  a  bank  clerk  in  New  York,  and  morn- 
ing and  night  I  go  through  the  monotony 


35 


36  The  Automobile 

of  railway  travel,  and  for  one  who  is  forbid- 
den to  use  his  eyes  on  the  train  and  who  does 
not  play  cards  it  is  monotony,  for  in  the 
morning  my  friends  are  either  playing  cards 
or  else  reading  their  papers,  and  one  does 
not  like  to  urge  the  claims  of  conversation  on 
one  who  is  deep  in  politics  or  the  next  play 
of  his  antagonist ;  so  my  getting  to  business 
and  coming  back  are  in  the  nature  of  purga- 
tory. I  therefore  hailed  the  automobile  as 
a  Heaven-sent  means  of  swift  motion  with 
an  agreeable  companion,  and  with  no  danger 
of  encountering  either  newspapers  or  cards. 
I  have  seen  neither  reading  nor  card-playing 
going  on  in  any  automobile. 

The  community  in  which  I  live  is  not  pro- 
gressive, and  when  I  said  that  I  expected  to 
buy  an  automobile  as  soon  as  my  ship  came 
in  I  was  frowned  upon  by  my  neighbors. 
Several  of  them  have  horses,  and  all,  or 
nearly  all,  have  feet.  The  horsemen  were 
not  more  opposed  to  my  proposed  ownership 
than  the  footmen — I  should  say  pedestrians. 


The  Automobile  37 

They  all  thought  automobiles  dangerous  and 
a  menace  to  public  peace,  but  of  course  I 
pooh-poohed  their  fears  and,  being  a  person 
of  a  good  deal  of  stability  of  purpose,  I  went 
on  saving  my  money,  and  in  course  of  time 
I  bought  an  automobile  of  the  electric 
sort. 

Araminta  is  plucky,  and  I  am  perfectly 
fearless.  When  the  automobile  was  brought 
home  and  housed  in  the  little  barn  that  is  on 
our  property,  the  man  who  had  backed  it  in 
told  me  that  he  had  orders  to  stay  and  show 
me  how  it  worked,  but  I  laughed  at  him — 
good-naturedly  yet  firmly.  I  said,  "  Young 
man,  experience  teaches  more  in  half  an  hour 
than  books  or  precepts  do  in  a  year.  A 
would-be  newspaper  man  does  not  go  to  a 
school  of  journalism  if  he  is  wise;  he  gets 
a  position  on  a  newspaper  and  learns  for 
himself,  and  through  his  mistakes.  I  know 
that  one  of  these  levers  is  to  steer  by,  that 
another  lets  loose  the  power,  and  that  there 
is  a  foot-brake.  I  also  know  that  the  ma- 


38  The  Automobile 

chine  is  charged,  and  I  need  to  know  no 
more.  Good-day." 

Thus  did  I  speak  to  the  young  man,  and 
he  saw  that  I  was  a  person  of  force  and  dis- 
cretion, and  he  withdrew  to  the  train  and 
I  never  saw  him  again. 

Araminta  had  been  to  Passaic  shopping, 
but  she  came  back  while  I  was  out  in  the 
barn  looking  at  my  new  purchase,  and  she 
joined  me  there.  I  looked  at  her  lovingly, 
and  she  returned  the  look.  Our  joint  ambi- 
tion was  realized ;  we  were  the  owners  of  an 
automobile,  and  we  were  going  out  that 
afternoon. 

Why  is  it  that  cheap  barns  are  so  flimsily 
built?  I  know  that  our  barn  is  cheap  be- 
cause the  rent  for  house  and  barn  is  less  than 
what  many  a  clerk,  city  pent,  pays  for  a 
cramped  flat,  but  again  I  ask,  why  are  they 
flimsily  built  ?  I  have  no  complaint  to  make. 
If  my  barn  had  been  built  of  good  stout  oak 
I  might  to-day  be  in  a  hospital. 

It  happened  this  way.     Araminta  said, 


The  Automobile  39 

"  Let  me  get  in,  and  we  will  take  just  a  little 
ride  to  see  how  it  goes,"  and  I  out  of  my 
love  for  her  said,  "  Wait  just  a  few  minutes, 
dearest,  until  I  get  the  hang  of  the  thing.  I 
want  to  see  how  much  go  she  has  and  just 
how  she  works." 

Araminta  has  learned  to  obey  my  slightest 
word,  knowing  that  love  is  at  the  bottom 
of  all  my  commands,  and  she  stepped  to  one 
side  while  I  entered  the  gayly  painted  vehi- 
cle and  tried  to  move  out  of  the  barn.  I 
moved  out.  But  I  backed.  Oh,  blessed, 
cheaply  built  barn.  My  way  was  not  re- 
stricted to  any  appreciable  extent.  I  shot 
gayly  through  the  barn  into  the  hen  yard, 
and  the  sound  of  the  ripping  clapboards 
frightened  the  silly  hens  who  were  enjoying 
a  dust-bath,  and  they  fled  in  more  directions 
than  there  were  fowls. 

I  had  not  intended  entering  the  hen  yard, 
and  I  did  not  wish  to  stay  there,  so  I  kept 
on  out,  the  wire  netting  not  being  what  an 
automobile  would  call  an  obstruction.  I 


40  The  Automobile 

never  lose  my  head,  and  when  I  heard  Ara- 
minta  screaming  in  the  barn,  I  called  out 
cheerily  to  her,  "  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute, 
dear,  but  I'm  coming  another  way." 

And  I  did  come  another  way.  I  came  all 
sorts  of  ways.  I  really  don't  know  what  got 
into  the  machine,  but  she  now  turned  to  the 
left  and  made  for  the  road,  and  then  she 
ran  along  on  her  two  left  wheels  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  seemed  about  to  turn  a 
somersault,  but  changed  her  mind,  and,  still 
veering  to  the  left,  kept  on  up  the  road,  pass- 
ing my  house  at  a  furious  speed,  and  making 
for  the  open  country.  With  as  much  calm- 
ness as  I  could  summon  I  steered  her,  but  I 
think  I  steered  her  a  little  too  much,  for  she 
turned  toward  my  house. 

I  reached  one  end  of  the  front  piazza  at 
the  same  time  that  Araminta  reached  the 
other  end  of  it.  I  had  the  right  of  way,  and 
she  deferred  to  me  just  in  time.  I  removed 
the  vestibule  storm  door.  It  was  late  in 
March,  and  I  did  not  think  we  should  have 


The  Automobile  41 

any  more  use  for  it  that  season.  And  we 
didn't. 

I  had  ordered  a  strongly  built  machine, 
and  I  was  now  glad  of  it,  because  a  light  and 
weak  affair  that  was  merely  meant  to  run 
along  on  a  level  and  unobstructed  road 
would  not  have  stood  the  assault  on  my 
piazza.  Why,  my  piazza  did  not  stand  it. 
It  caved  in,  and  made  work  for  an  already 
overworked  local  carpenter  who  was  behind- 
hand with  his  orders.  After  I  had  passed 
through  the  vestibule,  I  applied  the  brake, 
and  it  worked.  The  path  is  not  a  cinder  one, 
as  I  think  them  untidy,  so  I  was  not  more 
than  muddied.  I  was  up  in  an  instant,  and 
looked  at  the  still  enthusiastic  machine  with 
admiration. 

"  Have  you  got  the  hang  of  it?"  said 
Araminta. 

Now  that's  one  thing  I  like  about  Ara- 
minta. She  does  not  waste  words  over  non- 
essentials.  The  point  was  not  that  I  had 
damaged  the  piazza.  I  needed  a  new  one, 


42  The  Automobile 

anyway.  The  main  thing  was  that  I 
was  trying  to  get  the  hang  of  the  ma- 
ckine,  and  she  recognized  that  fact  in- 
stantly. 

I  told  her  that  I  thought  I  had,  and  that 
if  I  had  pushed  the  lever  in  the  right  way 
at  first,  I  should  have  come  out  of  the  barn 
in  a  more  conventional  way. 

She  again  asked  me  to  let  her  ride,  and 
as  I  now  felt  that  I  could  better  cope  with  the 
curves  of  the  machine  I  allowed  her  to  get 
in. 

"  Don't  lose  your  head,"  said  I. 

"  I  hope  I  shan't,"  said  she  dryly. 

"  Well,  if  you  have  occasion  to  leave  me, 
drop  over  the  back.  Never  jump  ahead. 
That  is  a  fundamental  rule  in  runaways  of 
all  kinds." 

Then  we  started,  and  I  ran  the  motor 
along  for  upward  of  half  a  mile  after  I  had 
reached  the  highway,  which  I  did  by  a  short 
cut  through  a  field  at  the  side  of  our  house. 
There  is  only  a  slight  rail  fence  surrounding 


The  Automobile  43 

it,  and  my  machine  made  little  of  that.  It 
really  seemed  to  delight  in  what  some  people 
would  have  called  danger. 

"Araminta,  are  you  glad  that  I  saved  up 
for  this?" 

"  I  am  mad  with  joy,"  said  the  dear  thing, 
her  face  flushed  with  excitement  mixed  with 
expectancy.  Nor  were  her  expectations  to 
be  disappointed.  We  still  had  a  good  deal 
to  do  before  we  should  have  ended  our  first 
ride. 

So  far  I  had  damaged  property  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  but  I  had  no  one  but  myself  to 
reckon  with,  and  I  was  providing  work  for 
people.  I  always  have  claimed  that  he  who 
makes  work  for  two  men  where  there  was 
only  work  for  one  before,  is  a  public  bene- 
factor, and  that  day  I  was  the  friend  of  car- 
penters and  other  mechanics. 

Along  the  highway  we  flew,  our  hearts 
beating  high,  but  never  in  our  mouths,  and 
at  last  we  saw  a  team  approaching  us.  By 
"  a  team  "  I  mean  a  horse  and  buggy.  I 


44  The  Automobile 

was  raised  in  Connecticut,  where  a  team  is 
anything  you  choose  to  call  one. 

The  teamster  saw  us.  Well,  perhaps  I 
should  not  call  him  a  teamster  ( although  he 
was  one  logically)  :  he  was  our  doctor,  and, 
as  I  say,  he  saw  us. 

Now  I  think  it  would  have  been  friendly 
in  him,  seeing  that  I  was  more  or  less  of  a 
novice  at  the  art  of  automobiling,  to  have 
turned  to  the  left  when  he  saw  that  I  was 
inadvertently  turning  to  the  left,  but  the 
practice  of  forty  years  added  to  a  certain 
native  obstinacy  made  him  turn  to  the  right, 
and  he  met  me  at  the  same  time  that  I  met 
him. 

The  horse  was  not  hurt,  for  which  I  am 
truly  glad,  and  the  doctor  joined  us,  and 
continued  with  us  for  a  season,  but  his  buggy 
was  demolished. 

Of  course  I  am  always  prepared  to  pay  for 
my  pleasure,  and  though  it  was  not,  strictly 
speaking,  my  pleasure  to  deprive  my  physi- 
cian of  his  turn-out,  yet  if  he  had  turned  out 


The  Automobile  45 

it  wouldn't  have  happened — and,  as  I  say, 
I  was  prepared  to  get  him  a  new  vehicle. 
But  he  was  very  unreasonable;  so  much  so 
that,  as  he  was  crowding  us — for  the  seat 
was  not  built  for  more  than  two,  and  he  is 
stout — I  at  last  told  him  that  I  intended  to 
turn  around  and  carry  him  home,  as  we  were 
out  for  pleasure,  and  he  was  giving  us  pain. 

I  will  confess  that  the  events  of  the  last 
few  minutes  had  rattled  me  somewhat,  and 
I  did  not  feel  like  turning  just  then,  as  the 
road  was  narrow.  I  knew  that  the  road 
turned  of  its  own  accord  a  half-mile  farther 
on,  and  so  I  determined  to  wait. 

"  I  want  to  get  out,"  said  the  doctor  tartly, 
and  just  as  he  said  so  Araminta  stepped  on 
the  brake,  accidentally.  The  doctor  got  out 
— in  front.  With  great  presence  of  mind 
I  reversed,  and  so  we  did  not  run  over  him. 
But  he  was  furious  and  sulphurous,  and  that 
is  why  I  have  changed  to  homeopathy.  He 
was  the  only  allopathic  doctor  in  Brantford. 

I  suppose  that  if  I  had  stopped  and  apolo- 


46  The  Automobile 

gized,  he  would  have  made  up  with  me,  and 
I  would  not  have  got  angry  with  him,  but 
I  couldn't  stop.  The  machine  was  now 
going  as  she  had  done  when  I  left  the  barn, 
and  we  were  backing  into  town. 

Through  it  all  I  did  not  lose  my  coolness. 
I  said :  "  Araminta,  look  out  behind,  which 
is  ahead  for  us,  and  if  you  have  occasion  to 
jump  now,  do  it  in  front,  which  is  behind," 
and  Araminta  understood  me. 

She  sat  sideways,  so  that  she  could  see 
what  was  going  on,  but  that  might  have  been 
seen  from  any  point  of  view,  for  we  were 
the  only  things  going  on — or  backing. 

Pretty  soon  we  passed  the  wreck  of  the 
buggy,  and  then  we  saw  the  horse  grazing 
on  dead  grass  by  the  roadside,  and  at  last 
we  came  on  a  few  of  our  townfolk  who  had 
seen  us  start,  and  were  now  come  out  to 
welcome  us  home.  But  I  did  not  go  home 
just  then.  I  should  have  done  so  if  the  ma- 
chine had  minded  me  and  turned  in  at  our 
driveway,  but  it  did  not. 


The  Automobile  47 

Across  the  way  from  us  there  is  a  fine 
lawn  leading  up  to  a  beautiful  greenhouse 
full  of  rare  orchids  and  other  plants.  It  is 
the  pride  of  my  very  good  neighbor,  Jacob 
Rawlinson. 

The  machine,  as  if  moved  by  malice  pre- 
pense, turned  just  as  we  came  to  the  lawn, 
and  began  to  back  at  railroad  speed. 

I  told  Araminta  that  if  she  was  tired  of 
riding,  now  was  the  best  time  to  stop;  that 
she  ought  not  to  overdo  it,  and  that  I  was 
going  to  get  out  myself  as  soon  as  I  had 
seen  her  off. 

I  saw  her  off. 

Then  after  one  ineffectual  jab  at  the 
brake,  I  left  the  machine  hurriedly,  and  as  I 
sat  down  on  the  sposhy  lawn  I  heard  a  tre- 
mendous but  not  unmusical  sound  of  falling 
glass.  .  .  . 

I  tell  Araminta  that  it  isn't  the  running 
of  an  automobile  that  is  expensive.  It  is  the 
stopping  of  it. 


The  Man    from  Ochre   Point, 
New  Jersey 

SYMON — that  was  his  last  name.  I'd  be 
willing  to  wager  that  his  first  name  was 
Simple,  although  on  the  passenger  list  it  was 
merely  S.  Symon. 

I  met  him  the  second  day  out.  The  rea- 
son I  came  to  talk  to  him — but  perhaps  I 
ought  to  say  that  we  were  both  running  from 
Southampton  to  New  York. 

He  had  a  retreating  chin  and  a  receding 
forehead,  and  ears  that  must  have  made 
walking  difficult  in  a  high  wind;  and  the 
first  thing  I  heard  him  say  drew  me  to  him : 

"  I  thought  St.  Paul's  was  in  Rome.  I 
was  a  whole  day  in  London,  but  I  didn't  try 
to  see  St.  Paul's  because  I  didn't  know  it 
was  there.  But  I  did  go  up  in  a  tremenjous 
church  that  had  a  whispering-gallery  in  it, 

and  I  thought  I'd  die  a-laughing  to  hear  the 
48 


/  -s 

YES;  N' YORK'S  GOOD  ENOUGH  FOR  ME."— P.  49- 


The  Man  from  Ochre  Point    49 

voices  come  right  out  of  the  air  in  front 
of  me.  An  old  feller  told  me  to  stop  because 
they  were  having  a  funeral  below." 

"  Why,  that  was  St.  Paul's/'  said  I,  join- 
ing in  the  conversation  with  shipboard  free- 
dom. 

"  That  so !  Wasn't  no  name  over  the 
door." 

My  speaking  to  him  was  the  cue  for  the 
man  who  had  been  conversing  to  go  away. 
I  think  that  he  knew  when  he  had  had 
enough,  but  as  I  needed  exercise  I  deter- 
mined to  pump  my  new  acquaintance. 

"  Been  over  long?" 

"  I  was  two  weeks  in  Europe." 

"  Well,  what's  good  enough  for  you?  " 

"What  you  mean?" 

"Is  New  York  good  enough  for  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Didn't  know  what  you  meant, 
you  put  it  so  sudden.  Yes;  N'  York  's  good 
enough  for  me." 

"  Know  New  York  pretty  well,  don't 
you?" 


50    The  Man  from  Ochre  Point 

"  Well,  I  stopped  overnight  there  on  my 
way  from  Ochre  Point  to  the  steamer.  My 
home's  in  Ochre  Point,  New  Jersey.  I 
think  N'  York  lays  over  anything  in 
Europe." 

"  Then  you  didn't  become  denationalized 
by  your  trip  ?  " 

"  Demoralized,  you  mean.  Dear,  no!  I've 
knocked  around  Ochre  Point  too  long  for 
that/' 

"  What  countries  did  you  visit  in  Eu- 
rope?" 

"  Brussels  and  Belgium  and  Paris  and 
England." 

I  really  felt  sorry  for  him,  but  I  couldn't 
help  saying : 

"  Which  did  you  like  better,  Belgium  or 
Brussels?" 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't  see  much 
of  Brussels,  as  I  was  awful  tired  when  I  got 
there,  and  I  went  to  sleep  right  after  break- 
fast, and  I  never  woke  up  till  it  was  supper- 
time,  and  I  went  to  Belgium  next  day.  But 


F 

^  ->  *P  -;> 

"  I  JUST  SAT  IN  MY  ROOM  AND  READ  IT."— P.  51. 


The  Man  from  Ochre  Point    51 

I  didn't  find  much  to  see  there,  so  I  went  in 
the  afternoon  to  Paris." 

I  regret  that  I  did  not  find  out  just  what 
he  meant  by  Belgium,  but  his  mention  of 
Paris  suggested  a  question: 

"  Paris  hit  you  pretty  hard,  didn't  it?  " 

"  Well,  now,  it  did.  I  was  there  four 
days,  and  I  saw  quite  a  good  deal  of  Paris, 
although  two  days  it  rained,  and  I  didn't  go 
out.  I  had  a  book  that  a  feller  recommended 
on  board  ship,  and  he  lent  it  to  me,  and 
asked  me  to  return  it  to  him  in  Paris. 
He  gave  me  his  address.  Well,  it  was 
called  '  Smiles  and  Grins,'  and  say,  that 
book  is  full  of  the  most  comical  sayings.  I 
just  sat  in  my  room  and  read  it  those  rainy 
days  so's  I  could  return  it  to  him,  and  then 
when  I  went  to  his  hotel  I  found  he'd  gone 
the  day  before.  But  it  was  great.  I'll  lend 
it  to  you,  if  you  want." 

I  told  him  I  never  could  read  on  board 
ship,  as  it  required  too  much  concentra- 
tion. 


52    The  Man  from  Ochre  Point 

"Well,  I  think  this  book's  easier  than 
some.  I  didn't  mind  the  weather,  on  account 
of  the  book;  and  then,  it  is  by  an  American, 
and,  I  tell  you,  we  know  how  to  write." 

"  But  I  should  think  that  you  would  have 
hated  to  give  up  so  much  time  to  reading, 
when  your  stay  was  so  limited." 

"  Well,  I  am  kind  of  sorry  now;  but,  you 
see,  when  I'm  home  somehow  I  don't  much 
care  to  read,  so  I  just  pitched  in.  Have  a 
cigarette?  " 

"  No,  thanks ;  I  don't  smoke.  What  did 
you  think  of  the  Exposition  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  see  the  inside  of  it.  You 
see,  I  traveled  with  a  fellow  from  Rahway, 
who  wanted  to  run  down  into  the  French 
country  to  see  a  friend  of  his,  and  he  offered 
to  pay  my  way  if  I'd  go,  because  he  couldn't 
speak  any  French,  and  neither  could  I,  and 
he  said  it  would  make  us  feel  less  lone- 


some." 


"Was  it  a  pretty  place  you  went  to? 
Real  country  or  only  suburban  ?  " 


The  Man  from  Ochre  Point    53 

Mr.  Symon  cackled.  "  Well,  now  you've 
got  me.  I  really  don't  remember.  It  had 
one  of  those  French  names,  and  when  we 
got  down  there  it  was  so  hot  that  I  just 
waited  for  him  in  the  station  and  read  the 
paper." 

"  What  paper  was  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  the  Ochre  Point  of  View.  Oh,  I 
do  remember  that  place.  It  was  Fountain- 
bloo." 

"  Fontainebleau !  "  I  gasped.  "  And  you 
didn't  leave  the  station !  Didn't  your  friend 
tell  you  you'd  missed  something?  " 

"  No ;  you  see,  he  had  the  wrong  address, 
and  he  spent  all  his  time  looking  for  his 
friend,  and  he  said  he  nearly  got  lost  in  a 
piece  of  woods,  and  he  came  to  a  place  that 
looked  like  a  castle,  but  he  didn't  go  in,  as 
he  knew  his  friend  didn't  live  there." 

"What's  your  friend's  name?" 

"  Jasper  Dinkey." 

I  felt  that  that  was  just  what  a  Jasper 
Dinkey  would  do.  Names  have  a  potent 


54    The  Man  from  Ochre  Point 

influence  on  actions.  "  But  next  day  why 
didn't  you  go  to  the  Exposition  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  I  had  to  buy  my  return 
ticket,  and  that  took  a  whole  morning;  and 
then  I  went  up  to  my  lodgings,  and  I  just 
took  off  my  coat  and  vest  and  collar,  and 
lighted  a  cigarette,  andUhen  I  took  off  my 
shoes  and  stockings,  and  you  bet  I  was  com- 
fortable until  it  was  time  for  me  to  go  out 
and  hunt  up  a  supper.  I  tell  you,  a  man  can 
be  comfortable  in  Paris." 

"  Do  you  speak  French  ?  How  did  you 
make  out  about  supper?  Wasn't  it  din- 
ner?" 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so ;  but  I  always  have 
supper  at  home,  so  I  call  it  that.  No,  I  don't 
speak  French — only  '  ooey.' ' 

"  What  is  '  ooey  '  ?  "  said  I,  puzzled. 

"  Why,  '  ooey  '  is  the  French  for  *  yes,  if 
you  please/  ' 

"  Well,  if  you  didn't  know  any  more 
French  than  that,  how  did  you  get  along?  " 

"  Well,  a  French  gentleman  did  tell  me 


I   DON'T   SPEAK   FRENCH."— P.    54. 


The  Man  from  Ochre  Point    55 

another  French  word  that  means  '  some  of 
that/  and  I  always  sat  down  next  to  some- 
one who  was  eating,  and  when  the  waiter 
came  I  said,  '  Ooey,  kelk-dee-selar/  and 
pointed  at  the  plate,  and  they  generally  un- 
derstood right  away.  But  it  was  expensive/' 

"Why  expensive?" 

"  Because,"  said  Mr.  Symon,  tossing  his 
cigarette  overboard,  "  sometimes  the  man 
next  to  me  was  eating  an  expensive  dish. 
Once  it  cost  me  ten  francs  for  supper, 
and  all  I  meant  to  eat  was  a  franc  and  a 
half.  They  said  things  were  higher  in  the 
Exposition." 

"  So  you  came  away  without  seeing  the 
Exposition." 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  said  Mr.  Symon,  lighting 
another  cigarette.  "But"  (puff)  "  I've 
seen  "  (puff,  puff)  "  our  Waverly  Fair,  and 
a  feller  told  me  the  only  difference  was  that 
our  fair  is  smaller." 

"  It  is  smaller,  that's  very  true.  Did  you 
go  to  London  ?  " 


56    The  Man  from  Ochre  Point 

"Yes;  I  told  you  so." 

"Sick  on  the  Channel?" 

"  Well,  now  you've  got  me.  I  was  sick  on 
the  boat,  but  I  didn't  hear  the  name.  Guess 
it  was  the  Channel.  Oh,  say,  I  saw  one  pic- 
ture in  France  in  the  only  place  I  did  go  to. 
It  was  about  a  young  woman  going  to  be 
burned  up.  In  a  big,  roundish  kind  of 
building  with  pictures  painted  into  the  walls. 
That  was  the  day  I  went  to  Fountainbloo." 

"Was  it  the  Pantheon?" 

"  Somethin'  about  a  panther,  I  think.  I 
asked  a  feller  that  could  talk  English  what 
it  was  all  about,  and  he  told  me  it  was  about 
Jonah  of  the  Ark;  some  of  Noah's  folks,  I 
suppose.  He  said  it  was  a  she,  though  the 
name  was  Jonah.  He  seemed  to  know  all 
about  her,  although  he'd  only  come  that 
day;  but  then,  he  was  traveling  with  a  party, 
so  I  suppose  some  of  'em  told  him.  I 
thought  such  goings-on  wouldn't  be  allowed 
in  these  times.  He  said  they  were  going  to 
burn  her  because  she  wouldn't  go  into  the 


The  Man  from  Ochre  Point    57 

ark,  but  just  as  the  flames  were  beginning  to 
scorch  her  the  flood  came  and  drowned  all 
the  people  who  were  torturing  her." 

"  Then  what  became  of  her?  " 

"  Well,  I.  think  an  angel  rescued  her ;  but  I 
couldn't  find  out,  because  the  big  crowd  the 
feller  was  with  all  tramped  out  of  the  build- 
ing, and  he  ran  after  them.  It  was  one  of 
those  traveling  parties." 

"  Cook's  tourists  ?  " 

"  That's  it.  They  seemed  in  a  hurry.  I 
was  sorry,  because  there  were  other  pictures 
about  the  same  girl.  One  where  she  is  in 
a  garden,  and  an  angel  you  can  see  through 
is  coming  to  her.  I  wondered  whether  it  was 
the  angel  that  saved  her  from  being  drowned 
after  the  flood  put  the  fire  out.  You  see, 
the  angel  picture  was  on  the  right,  so  it 
must  have  come  after  the  flood-and-fire  pic- 
ture. All  the  paintings  in  that  place  were 
pretty  slick,  I  thought." 

"  I  believe  they're  considered  so."  The 
preparatory  dinner-bugle  blew,  and  as  I  was 


58    The  Man  from  Ochre  Point 

at  the  first  table  I  hurried  my  young  friend 
on  to  London.  "  So  you  say  you  went  to 
England.  What  did  you  think  of  English 
scenery?  " 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  awful 
sleepy,  and  just  as  soon  as  I  got  aboard  the 
train  at  Dover  I  leaned  back  and  went  to 
sleep,  and  I  never  heard  a  sound  until  we 
reached  London.  My  friend  said  it  was  real 
pretty,  only  the  fields  were  full  of  red 
weeds  that  he  thought  must  be  bad  for 
cattle." 

"Poppies?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  that's  what  he  said." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  see  in  London?  " 

"  Say,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  that.  A 
feller  said  that  if  I  wanted  to  see  a  sight  I 
must  go  to  this  Hyde  Park  and  watch  the 
rich  folks  ride  by  on  Rotten  Street." 

"  Rotten  Row,"  I  said,  correcting  him. 

"  Well,  street  or  road  is  all  one.  I  went 
there  and  sat  on  one  of  the  park  benches, 
and  I  saw  three  men  go  by  in  a  half  an  hour. 


"  ONCE  IT  COST  ME  TEN  FRANCS   FOR  SUPPER."— P.   55. 


The  Man  from  Ochre  Point    59 

I  tell  you,  I  was  disgusted.  Why,  there's 
more  ridin'  in  Ochre  Point  in  summer." 

"  You  went  at  the  wrong  time.  Well, 
which  did  you  like  best,  Paris  or  London?  " 

"  N'  York  's  better'n  both  of  'em,  and  for 
solid  comfort  Ochre  Point  aint  so  far  be- 
hind. I  only  crossed  because  my  chum 
wanted  me  to  go.  You  see,  father  died  last 
year,  and  he  left  me  with  all  the  money  I 
want,  and  I  hadn't  anything  to  do  at  home, 
so  I  thought  I'd  travel.  A  feller  that  comes 
to  Ochre  Point  in  the  summer  said  it  would 
enlarge  my  mind." 

"  Well,  do  you  think  it  has?  " 

"  Well,  there's  no  telling,  but  I  guess  I've 
enlarged  it  enough  if  traveling's  the  only 
thing  that  '11  do  it.  Ochre  Point  is  good 
enough  for  me,  for  there  aint  any  sights 
there  that  I  feel  bound  to  see.  Now,  I'm 
awful  glad  that  was  St.  Paul's  that  I  went 
to,  because  I  knew  an  I-talian  chap  who 
summered  at  Ochre  Point,  and  he  said  if  I 
went  to  Rome  I  must  be  sure  to  see  St. 


60    The  Man  from  Ochre  Point 

Paul's.  I  guess  the  laugh's  on  him.  Funny, 
how  ignorant  those  I-talians  are." 

"Didn't  he  say  St.  Peter's?"  I  asked. 

"  Whyee,  so  he  did !  Well,  I  am  sorry, 
because  I  made  sure  he'd  never  heard  of  that 
whispering-gallery  right  in  the  church,  and 
I  was  going  to  have  fun  with  him.  Excuse 
me,  and  I'll  go  tell  my  chum." 


"There's  Only  One  Noo 
York." 

I  SAW  Thomas  J.  Brownley  four  times 
altogether,  counting  the  ocean  voyage 
as  one  time.  He  was  about  forty-five 
years  old,  smooth-shaven,  and  with  blue 
eyes  that  looked  keen,  and  yet  seemed  to 
have  latent  softness  in  them.  His  nose  was 
aquiline,  and  I  think  he  could  not  have 
passed  for  anything  but  an  American,  no 
matter  how  far  he  strayed  from  his  beloved 
"  Noo  York." 

The  third  day  out  I  came  on  him  softly 
swearing  to  himself  as  he  leaned  over  the 
forward    rail    of   the   hurricane-deck.     He 
grunted   inarticulately  as   I   came  up  and 
halted  beside  him.     I  said : 
"Morning.     Lost  anything ?" 
"  Yes,  sir! "  said  he.     "  Lost  my  peace  of 
mind.     What  a  curious  sort  of  fool  I  was 

61 


62     "Only  One  Noo  York" 

ever  to  take  my  doctor's  advice  and  leave 
Noo  York!  Gee-orge  Harry!  here's  three 
days  have  passed  since  I  left  home,  and 
Lord  only  knows  how  many  things  have 
happened  that  I  know  nothing  about.  I 
don't  know  whether  they've  renominated 
McKinley  or  not,  I  don't  know  whether  my 
clerks  have  busted  my  business  or  not.  And 
what  do  I  get  in  place  of  it  ?  A  lot  of  meals 
cooked  different  from  what  I'm  used  to,  and 
me  half  sick  for  nearly  a  day " 

"Well,"  I  interjected,  "you're  lucky  not 
to  have  been  sick  longer.  Some  of  the  pas- 
sengers haven't  shown  up  yet." 

"  Wouldn't  have  been  sick  a  minute  at 
home."  His  eyes  looked  over  the  "  deso- 
late waste  of  waters  "  as  if  they  were  trying 
to  see  the  Statue  of  Liberty.  "  Waves, 
waves,  nothing  but  waves!  Not  a  tree  in 
sight!  I  was  a  fool,  that's  what  I  was." 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  your  doctor  pre- 
scribed the  sea-voyage?" 

"  Oh,  that's  only  because  he  thought  I 


"Only  One  Noo  York"     63 

was  working  too  hard.  I  wasn't  working 
any  harder  than  I  always  have  worked. 
Gee-orge  Hnrry!  I'd  rather  work  myself 
to  death  than  loaf  myself  to  death.  Here 
'tis  three  days,  and  I  haven't  done  a  stroke 
of  work.  What's  worse,  I  haven't  felt  like 
working.  That's  what  knocks.  When  I 
get  home  I  may  find  I'm  good  for  nothing 
but  loafing  around,  like  a  fellow  whose 
father  was  self-made.  Dry-goods  business 
may  have  gone  higher 'n  a  kite,  for  all  I 
know.  And  they  tell  me  we're  likely  to 
have  six  or  seven  days'  more  of  this  monoto- 
nous trip.  If  I  could  only  sleep  all  the  time, 
but,  cuss  it  all !  I  can't  even  sleep  all  night, 
the  berths  are  so  short.  Wish  't  I'd  ar- 
ranged to  come  back  on  the  next  steamer; 
but  I  was  talked  into  doing  London  and  the 
Paris  Exposition." 

"  But  you'll  surely  find  much  to  interest 
you  in  London." 

"  Oh,  will  I  ?  You  don't  know  me,  then. 
I'm  an  American  from  'way  back,  and 


64     "Only  One  Noo  York" 

there's  only  one  Noo  York.  That's  where 
I  was  born  and  brought  up.  What  '11  I  find 
to  interest  me  in  a  town  that  is  ten  years 
behind  our  metropolis — a  town  that  has  no 
American  noospapers?  I  hate  picture-gal- 
leries, and  I'm  glad  to  say  I've  forgotten 
the  little  history  I  ever  knew,  so  their  towers 
and  their  abbeys  wonrt  take  my  time  for  two 
minutes.  No,  sir.  Well,  then,  what  else 
is  there  for  me  to  see?  "  And  he  stretched 
his  closed  lips  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I've 
stumped  you." 

"  Their  parks,"  T  ventured. 

"Their  parks!"  he  sneered.  "And  I 
live  two  blocks  from  Central  Park !  Parks ! 
I  walk  through  our  park  every  afternoon  on 
the  way  home  from  my  store.  I  get  all  the 
park  I  want,  and  American  park  at  that.  I 
don't  want  to  look  at  any  behind-the-times 
English  park." 

"  Well,  you  can  study  the  people." 

"  Study  the  people !  Study  the  people ! 
I'll  get  enough  people-study  on  this  voyage 


NOSING   AROUND   AMONG  A   LOT   OF  MONUMENTS."-?.   65. 


"Only  One  Noo  York"     65 

to  last  me  a  lifetime.  I  hate  people  as  such. 
People  are  all  right  to  do  business  with,  but 
to  watch  'em  eat  or  to  watch  'em  watching 
the  waves, — those  cussed  old  waves, — well, 
you're  welcome  to  it.  It's  enough  to  hear 
'em  talk,  without  studying  them,  particu- 
larly the  women — a  lot  of  silly  women  that 
think  they're  having  a  good  time  now,  and 
talk  about  expecting  to  Rave  a  better  time  in 
England  nosing  around  among  a  lot  of 
monuments  and  graveyards  and  towers. 
Haven't  they  any  country  of  their  own  ?  If 
they  have  so  much  time,  why  don't  they 
travel  in  their  own  country?  This  is  the 
first  vacation  I've  had  in  twenty-two  years, 
and  I'd  have  gone  out  to  California  if  that 
cussed  doctor  hadn't  told  me  I  needed  a  sea- 
voyage.  But  these  silly  women  trapesing 
around  Europe,  and  not  knowing  Amer- 
ica !  "  He  was  silent  a  minute,  and  then  he 
went  on ;  "  Gee-orge  Harry !  I  wish  I 
knew  whether  McKinley  was  renominated. 
Think  of  being  without  a  noospaper  for 


66     "Only  One  Noo  York" 

three  days,  three  whole  days!  Aint  it  a 
crime?  " 

"  Why,  I'm  rather  glad  to  be  able  to  shut 
down  on  newspapers  for  a  while,"  said  I. 

"  Were  you  born  in  America  ? "  said 
Thomas  J.  Brownley,  as  if  he  doubted  it. 

"  Why,  yes;  and  I  expect  to  like  America 
better  than  ever  when  I  get  back;  but  I  like 
a  change " 

"  Well,  I  don't.  I  began  life  as  a  clerk 
in  the  house  I'm  head  partner  of  just  thirty- 
two  years  ago,  and  every  day — every  day 
except  Sunday — I've  come  down  to  that 
office  at  eight  in  the  morning,  and  it's  a  heap 
more  fun  than  see-sawing  up  and  down  in 
a  steamer,  with  nothing  to  do  but  sleep  and 

smoke  and  talk  and  eat There's  the 

bugle.  Now  I've  got  to  try  and  eat  a  lot  of 
dishes  that  I  wouldn't  know  if  I  met  'em  in 
my  back  yard.  You  at  the  second  table,  are 
you?  Wish  I  was.  Well,  there's  only  one 
Noo  York,  and  don't  you  forget  it." 

The  next  time  I  held  an  extended  con- 


"Only  One  Noo  York''     67 

versation  with  Thomas  J.  Brownfey  was 
while  I  was  in  London.  I  saw  his  tall,  thin 
figure  moving  nervously  along  the  Strand 
on  a  very  hot  day.  He  seemed  to  be  looking 
for  something. 

"  Hello,  brother ! "  he  said  as  soon  as  he 
saw  me.  "  Gee-orge  Harry !  but  it's  good  to 
see  an  American  face.  You  look  as  if  you 
could  really  talk  American.  These  people 
try  hard  enough,  but  it  gives  a  Noo- Yorker 
a  pain  to  hear  their  accent.  Say,  I'm  hunt- 
ing for  some  American  soda-water.  Their 
blamed  tepid  water  will  drive  me  to  drink, 
although  I'm  a  temperance  man.  Say,  did 
you  ever  see  so  much  drunkenness  in  your 
life?  But  if  I  could  get  a  good  old  drink 
of  American  soda-water,  ice-cold,  I'd  feel  as 
if  I  could  last.  Isn't  this  city  awful?  " 

Candor  compelled  me  to  tell  Mr.  Brown- 
ley  that  I  was  having  the  time  of  my  life. 

"  I  don't  understand  how  you  can.  You 
look  like  a  good  American." 

I  laughed,  and  suggested  that  we  ride  on 


68     "Only  One  Noo  York" 

a  bus  to  a  place  that  I  knew  of  where  real 
American  soda  was  dispensed,  and  we 
climbed  to  the  top  of  a  white  bus. 

"  This  makes  me  tired,"  said  he,  when  we 
were  seated.  "  I  used  to  be  ashamed  of  the 
Noo  York  horse-cars,  but  when  I  get  back 
I'll  ride  on  'em  for  three  or  four  days  so's 
not  to  be  too  startled  by  the  cables  and  trol- 
leys and  the  elevated.  Fifty  years  behind 
the  times.  I  said  before  I  came  here  that 
they  were  ten  years  behind,  but  it's  fifty. 
But " — and  here  his  voice  took  on  a  very 
serious  tone — "  I  don't  understand  you  fel- 
lows. I've  met  two  or  three  men  like  you 
that  say  they're  having  a  good  time.  You 
seem  to  be  wide-awake.  How  can  you  have 
a  good  time  in  any  place  but  America? 
Why,  every  minute  I'm  thinking  how  much 
better  we  do  it  all  in  Noo  York.  Look  at 
that  conductor.  No  uniform.  Seems  fairly 
immoral  to  be  collecting  fares  with  no  uni- 
form. And  they  tell  me  you  can't  open  the 
bus  windows.  Why,  there'd  be  a  riot  in 


"  I  THOUGHT  THAT  THE  SODA  WAS  PRETTY  GOOD."— P.  69. 


"Only  One  Noo  York"     69 

Noo  York  if  they  tried  to  keep  car  windows 
shut.  And  have  you  seen  their  noospapers  ? 
Hardly  a  line  about  New  York,  and  that 
little  all  wrong.  One  of  'em  says  Hanna's 
likely  to  be  nominated  on  the  Democratic 
ticket.  Wouldn't  that  jar  you?  I  always 
heard  that  English  papers  were  deadly  dull, 
but  I  never  knew  it  until  I  tried  to  read  one. 
Nothing  about  Noo  York  that's  worth 
printing,  and  yet  Noo  York  's  the  only  place 
where  anything  happens.  If  I  didn't  have 
my  passage  engaged,  I'd  go  back  to-morrow 
without  seeing  Paris." 

Just  then  we  came  to  the  soda-water  place, 
and  we  descended.  I  thought  that  the  soda 
was  pretty  good;  at  any  rate,  it  was  cool; 
but  Brownley's  expression  of  contempt  as 
he  set  it  down  was  worth  crossing  the  ocean 
to  see. 

"  I  wouldn't  know  it  for  soda-water  if  I 
met  it  in  my  back  yard.  What  a  country, 
what  a  God-forsaken  country,  this  is !  And 
I  left  Noo  York  for  it!" 


70     "Only  One  Noo  York" 

As  I  had  an  engagement,  I  left  Mr. 
Brownley  outside  of  the  soda-water  "  em- 
porium," and  I  did  not  see  him  again  until 
we  met  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens  in 
Paris. 

I  saw  him  first,  and  as  I'd  taken  some- 
thing of  a  fancy  to  the  homesick  and  dis- 
gruntled fellow,  I  called  out:  "Aren't  you 
rather  far  from  New  York,  Thomas  J. 
Brownley  ?  " 

He  turned,  and  I  thought  he  would  weep 
for  joy. 

He  shook  my  hand  with  both  of  his,  and 
looked  as  happy  as  if  Governor's  Island  had 
suddenly  loomed  up  before  him. 

After  his  first  delight  had  subsided  and 
we  were  sitting  together  in  front  of  a  cafe, 
he  said :  "  Well,  isn't  this  a  sad  sight,  this 
city?" 

Again"!  had  to  admit  that  I  was  having  a 
good  time  in  spite  of  a  somewhat  limited 
stock  of  French. 

He  rested  his  head  on  his  hands  and  shook 


"Only  One  Noo  York"     71 

it  from  side  to  side.  "  Oh,  how  can  you  say 
so!  Why,  I  thought  I  hated  London,  but  I 
give  you  my  word  I'd  be  glad  to  be  back 
there  to  hear  their  attempts  at  the  Ameri- 
can language.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a 
makeshift  for  talk  as  this  is?  Wouldn't  it 
drive  you  to  crime?  And  such  sights  as 
I've  seen  since  I  came  here!  Why,  sir, 
I  never  blushed  so  much  in  my  life  as  I  have 
here.  Filthiest  people  I  ever  saw  or  heard 
of.  Look  at  the  things  they  sell " 

"  To  Americans,"  I  said. 

"  Don't  believe  it.  Why,  I  wouldn't  run 
the  chance  of  being  found  dead  with  the 
things  they  sell  on  the  streets.  And  I  can 
tell  by  their  looks  that  what  they  are  saying 
to  each  other  isn't  fit  to  print.  A  dirty 
nation  on  its  last  legs.  London  was  para- 
dise to  this,  and  I  didn't  know  it.  Why, 
sir,  when  I  go  back  to  take  my  steamer  I'm 
going  to  write  a  letter  of  apology  to  one  o! 
those  miserable  London  papers,  telling  them 
I  hadn't  seen  Paris  when  I  passed  through 


72     "Only  One  Noo  York" 

London.  Oh,  it's  the  language  that  does  it. 
No  one  can  get  away  from  the  English  lan- 
guage and  expect  to  be  worth  anything  as  a 
man.  Here,  this  coffee's  on  me,  but  you 
talk  to  the  waiter.  I  haven't  learned  a  word 
of  their  tongue,  thank  God !  and  I  wouldn't 
on  principle,  if  I  lived  here  all  my  days.  But 
I've  had  an  awful  time  trying  to  get  my 
English  understood.  My  throat  is  'most 
worn  out  shouting,  and  still  they  don't  un- 
derstand. And  the  insolent  cabmen  that 
try  to  run  over  you!  I  grabbed  one  horse 
by  the  head  yesterday,  and  I  made  him  run 
up  on  the  sidewalk,  and  I  said  to  the  mis- 
erable driver :  *  I'm  from  Noo  York,  and 
you  can't  run  me  down  as  you  do  these  un- 
dersized Frenchmen/  ' 

"What  did  he  say?"  Tasked. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  actually  said  anything. 
He  chattered  like  a  crow  in  a  cornfield,  but 
no  one  could  talk  as  "fast  as  he  pretended  to. 
He  just  wabbled  his  tongue  at  me,  but  I'd 
shown  him  that  Americans  can't  be  imposed 


HE  CHATTERED  LIKE  A  CROW  IN  A  CORN-FIELD."— P.   72. 


"Only  One  Noo  York"     73 

upon,  and  I  came  away.  Well,  sir,  I'm 
awfully  glad  I  met  you,  and  I'm  glad  to  meet 
any  American.  Gee-orge  Harry!  if  France 
had  men  like  ours  she  wouldn't  be  going 
downhill  so  fast.  I  give  her  three  years  and 
six  weeks  to  get  to  perdition.  Good-night, 
and  come  and  see  me  in  Noo  York." 

We  exchanged  cards,  and  I  found  out 
on  what  steamer  he  was  going  to  return. 
I  told  myself  that  I  ought  not  to  miss  the 
landing  of  such  a  devoted  patriot,  and  as  I 
reached  New  York  first  I  was  able  to  gratify 
my  desire. 

He  was  the  first  man  to  run  down  the 
gang-plank,  and,  as  it  happened,  I  was  the 
only  man  to  meet  him.  Before  he  saw  me 
he  bowed  his  head  for  a  moment,  and  I  be- 
lieve he  was  offering  up  a  prayer  of  thank- 
fulness at  having  landed  once  more  in 
"  God's  country."  When  he  saw  me  he 
sprang  at  me  and  shook  my  arm  so  hard  that 
it  was  lame  next  day. 

"  Thank  God !     I'm  among  real  people 


74     "  Only  One  Noo  York  " 

once  more.  Oh,  what  a  bad  dream  my  trip 
has  been !  Now  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me 
while  I  say  it.  There's  only  one  country  in 
the  world,  and  that's  America,  and  there's 
only  one  Noo  York,  and  that's  right  here, 
and  if  the  good  Lord  gives  me  health  and 
strength  of  mind  and  body  I'll  never  be  such 
a  fool  as  to  go  to  a  foreign  shore  again. 
Who's  nominated  on  the  Democratic 
ticket?" 


Too  Much  Boy 

I  MET  a  gentleman  on  the  steamer  on 
my  return  from  Europe  who  spent  all 
his  time  in  the  smoking-room,  smoking 
good  cigars  and  looking  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  to  the  left,  but  staring  straight 
ahead  into  vacancy.  He  looked  to  me  like  a 
genial  man,  but  he  never  spoke  to  anyone, 
and  my  curiosity  was  excited,  the  more  so 
as  I  understood  that  he  was  the  father  of  the 
young  bunch  of  mischief  who  provided  ex- 
citement in  large  packages  for  the  passen- 
gers all  day  long,  and  whose  mother  was 
aging  hour  by  hour  owing  to  the  weight  of 
her  responsibilities. 

On  the  sixth  day  out  I  sat  down  in  front 
of  him  at  a  card-table  and  offered  him  a 
cigar.  He  surprised  me  by  accepting  it, 
and  when  he  thanked  me  his  eye  warmed 


75 


76  Too  Much  Boy 

and  I  felt  that  he  was  a  man  of  flesh  and 
blood. 

"You  don't  believe  in  getting  tanned?" 
I  ventured,  seeing  that  his  face,  on  account 
of  his  protracted  stay  in  the  smoking  room, 
was  as  white  as  a  bank  clerk's  just  before 
vacation. 

He  hesitated  a  minute  and  then,  blowing 
out  a  huge  cloud  of  smoke,  he  said :  "  I  be- 
lieve only  in  one  thing:  if  you  want  to 
enjoy  your  travels  leave  your  child  at 
home." 

I  am  sometimes  uncomfortably  frank,  and 
I  now  said : 

"  Your  child  doesn't  seem  to  trouble  you 
half  as  much  as  he  troubles  his  mother." 

"  No,"  said  he  in  a  dead-and-alive  tone, 
"  he  doesn't  trouble  me  any  more,  except 
that  he  keeps  me  a  prisoner  in  this  gloomy 
room.  Ordinarily  when  I  travel  I  spend 
every  minute  that  I  can  out  of  doors,  but  I 
told  Mrs.  Maberly — I'm  Mr.  Maberly,  as  I 
suppose  you  and  everybody  else  on  board 


Too  Much  Boy  77 

knows — I  told  Mrs.  Maberly  that  the  child 
had  taken  ten  years  out  of  my  life  on  the 
voyage  over,  and  in  Paris,  when  I  took  entire 
responsibility,  and  that  unless  I  could  be 
free  on  the  voyage  back  I'd  land  in  New 
York  a  doddering  idiot.  That's  why  I'm 
here.  That's  why  my  wife  never  allows  the 
child  on  this  deck.  She's  sunburned  enough, 
but,  poor  woman,  her  hair  is  growing  gray, 
although  it  was  black  as  a  coal  when  we  left 
New  York." 

I  murmured  something  sympathetic  and 
he  heaved  a  sigh  and  went  on : 

"  Why,  sir,  the  only  time  that  I  had  any 
pleasure  in  Paris,  although  it  may  sound 
unfeeling  to  say  so,  was  when  Tom  was  lost 
in  the  sewers." 

I  could  not  repress  an  exclamation,  and 
Mr.  Maberly  said : 

"  I  surprise  you;  but  if  you  had  had  to  put 
up  with  the  exuberance  of  spirits  that  that 
child  possesses  you  would  have  welcomed 
the  relief  also,  no  matter  what  it  cost.  For 


Too  Much  Boy 


a  ten-year-old  he  is  the  biggest  cluster  of 
mischief  that  ever  was  picked." 

"  Well,  how  about  the  sewer  escapade?  " 
said  I,  fearing  that  Mr.  Maberly  was  branch- 
ing off. 

"  Why,  you  see,  one  Tuesday  we  obtained 
a  permit  from  the  prefect  of  police  to  visit 
the  sewers,  and,  together  with  a  crowd  of 
some  fifty  or  more,  we  descended  into  the 
depths.  Did  you  visit  them?  M 

I  told  him  that  a  visit  to  the  sewers  was 
a  pleasure  yet  to  come. 

"  Well,  you  go  down  a  flight  of  steps  and 
find  a  train  of  platform  trolleys  awaiting 
you.  Mrs.  Maberly  and  Tom  got  into  the 
first  one.  She  had  to  because  he  ran  ahead 
of  the  crowd  and  almost  fell  beneath  the  car. 
That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  him  for  some 
time.  We  ran  a  mile  or  so  through  the  im- 
mense vaults,  wonderfully  clean,  yet  not  the 
place  for  an  ordinary  outing,  and  at  last  we 
debarked  and  walked  along  a  passageway 
until  we  came  to  an  underground  river,  ac- 


Too  Much  Boy  79 

tually  the  sewer.  Here  there  was  a  train  of 
boats  hitched  together  and  pulled  by  men 
who  walked  on  towpaths.  I  thought  that 
Tom  was  with  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Ma- 
berly  thought  that  he  was  with  me,  but  he 
wasn't  with  either  of  us. 

"  When  we  emerged  from  the  sewer  I 
said,  '  Where's  Tom  ? '  and  Mrs.  Maberly 
turned  white  and  ran  back  and  called  him. 
He  hadn't  come  back  with  us  at  all.  She, 
womanlike,  was  for  going  back  for  him,  but 
I  said :  '  Now,  Mary,  that  boy  never  came 
to  any  harm  yet.  I  know  a  good  thing  when 
I  see  it.  Let's  celebrate  our  liberty  until  he 
turns  up.'  But  you  know  what  a  mother  is. 
Nothing  would  do  but  she  must  try  to  get 
the  boy.  She  speaks  French,  and  she  said  to 
the  guide :  '  My  little  boy  is  left  behind.  He 
was  in  the  passage  at  the  end  of  the  trolley 
line,  but  I  don't  think  he  got  into  the  boat." 

"The  guide  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
said : '  I'm  very  sorry,  but  the  trip  is  over  for 
to-day.  On  next  Tuesday,  if  you  have  a 


8o  Too  Much  Boy 

permit  from  the  prefect  of  police,  you  can 
go  through  again  and  hunt  for  him.  Mean- 
time, never/ 

"  I  understood  French,  although  I  do  not 
speak  it.  '  There/  said  I ;  '  now  you  see,  my 
dear,  you  have  run  up  against  French  red 
tape,  and  you  might  as  well  rest  easy.  On 
Tuesday  next  we  will  go  about  this  thing 
in  an  orderly  manner.  We  will  hunt  up  the 
boy  with  a  permit  from  the  prefect.  Noth- 
ing will  be  gained  by  bucking  against  red 
tape.  Meantime  let  us  celebrate  our  liberty/ 

"  But  you  know  what  mothers  are.  She 
called  me  heartless,  and  said  her  boy  would 
be  eaten  alive  by  the  rats.  *  Nonsense/  said 
I ;  '  if  the  rats  plan  anything  like  that  it  is 
because  they  don't  know  Tom.  More  likely 
he'll  eat  them.  He  asked  me  yesterday  if 
I  knew  of  a  restaurant  where  he  could  get 
some  horse  meat/ 

"  Will  you  believe  it,  I  might  as  well  have 
talked  to  a  dead  wall.  Nothing  must  do  but 
a  visit  to  the  prefect  in  order  to  get  a  special 


Too  Much  Boy  81 


permit.  The  prefect  was  out,  but  his  subor- 
dinate was  there — a  very  polite  young  man 
with  little  mouselike  eyes  and  gleaming 
teeth.  He  heard  the  facts  and  then  said  he 
was  very  sorry,  but  he  could  not  issue  a  per- 
mit in  the  absence  of  the  prefect,  and  he 
doubted  if  the  prefect  himself  would  do  it 
either,  because,  the  city  being  full  of  Ex- 
position visitors,  they  could  not  allow  a  per- 
son to  make  more  than  one  excursion 
through  the  sewers. 

"  '  But  my  little  boy  is  there ! '  said  my 
wife.  *  I  beg  madame's  pardon/  said  the 
subordinate  with  a  polite  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  '  but  if  the  little  boy  is  now  in  the 
sewer  he  has  overstayed  the  time  permitted 
and  has  laid  himself  open  to  punishment  by 
the  authorities/  He  pulled  down  a  volume 
from  a  shelf  and  quickly  turned  to  the  place 
he  wanted. 

"  '  For  staying  overtime  in  the  sewers  of 
Paris,  a  fine  of  ten  francs  for  the  first  hour 
and  fifteen  francs  for  every  succeeding  hour 


82  Too  Much  Boy 

is  imposed.  Children  under  ten  are  fined 
five  francs  the  first  hour  and  ten  francs  for 
each  succeeding  hour/ 

" '  Madame  will  see,'  said  he,  '  that  such 
a  law  is  necessary,  for  the  sewers  of  Paris 
are  so  inviting,  so  beautifully  clean,  that  chil- 
dren like  them  as  a  playground,  and  others 
as  a  place  of  promenade.  Your  little  boy  has 
broken  the  law,  and  on  Tuesday  next,  when 
the  visitors  go  down.  I  will  send  an  officer 
along  to  look  for  him,  and  he  will  ascertain 
the  time  that  he  has  been  there,  and  upon 
payment  of  the  fine  he  will  be  restored  to 
you/ 

"  At  this  point  I  broke  in  and  said  to  my 
wife :  '  Now,  Mrs.  Maberly,  this  is  surely 
providential.  You  have  repeatedly  said  that 
you  could  not  enjoy  a  minute  of  your  stay 
in  Paris  on  account  of  Tom's  pranks.  I  dare 
say  that  he  will  be  perfectly  well  cared  for 
in  the  sewer.  While  he  is  enjoying  himself 
at  his  father's  expense  in  the  sewer  we  will 
see  Paris.  We've  been  here  a  week,  and  yet 


Too  Much  Boy  83 

I  can't  recall  a  single  thing  I've  seen  on  ac- 
count of  my  worry  over  that  boy.  He's  safe 
and  sound  and  underground,  in  a  good 
sense,  so  let's  celebrate  our  freedom/ 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Maberly  saw  that  I  was  talk- 
ing horse  sense,  and  she  asked  the  officer 
whether  he  would  be  cared  for  in  the  sewer. 
'  But  yes,  madame/  said  he;  'he  is  the  guest 
of  the  sewer.  He  will  be  fed  by  the  guard- 
ians of  the  sewer.  From  time  to  time  he 
will  advance  to  the  outlets  and  enjoy  a  view 
of  the  Seine  and  see  the  passing  boats.  For 
the  rest,  if  he  is  a  good  boy  the  guardians 
of  the  sewer  will  make  much  of  him  and  he 
will  enjoy  himself.  No  harm  can  come  to 
anyone  in  the  sewers  of  Paris.  Come  back 
next  Tuesday  morning  and  remind  me  of  the 
boy's  absence  and ' — here  he  bowed  very 
low  and  showed  his  teeth  and  snapped  his 
eyes,  and  looked  so  like  a  mouse  that  Mrs. 
Maberly  shuddered — '  and  I  will  personally 
see  to  it  that  your  boy  is  restored — after  the 
fine  is  paid.' 


84  Too  Much  Boy 

"  *  Will  there  be  extra  charges  for  his 
food? 'I  asked. 

"'Not  at  all.  He  is  the  guest  of  the 
sewer.  He  should  not  have  stayed,  but  now 
that  he  is  there  French  hospitality  will  see  to 
it  that  he  does  not  starve/ 

"  Well,  you  can't  imagine  what  a  feeling 
of  freedom  flooded  me.  I  said  to  Mrs.  Ma- 
berly :  *  We  have  earned  this  holiday.  Re- 
member that  the  captain  of  the  Landslide 
asked  us  to  chain  the  boy  in  the  cabin,  recol- 
lect how  at  each  hotel  we  have  been  requested 
to  keep  the  boy  away  from  every  room  in 
the  house  except  his  own  bedroom,  and  let 
us  go  to  Margueries  for  supper/ 

"  Then  we  left  our  names,  our  ages,  our 
religion,  our  color,  our  birthplace,  the  num- 
ber of  years  we  had  been  married,  and  our 
politics,  with  the  mouse-eyed  man,  and,  it 
being  seven  o'clock,  we  took  a  cab  to  Mar- 
gueries', where  we  had  fried  sole  and  other 
delicacies,  and  where  I  had  a  delightful 
time.  But  I  could  hear  Mrs.  Maberly  sigh 


Too  Much  Boy  85 

every  few  minutes  and  say :  '  Poor  lonely 
little  boy.  I  was  wicked.  Alone  with  the 
rats !  Down  with  red  tape ! ' 

"  Our  hotel  was  in  a  quiet  square  just 
back  of  the  Bibliotheque  Nationale,  and  so 
long  did  I  linger  over  that  quiet,  boyless  din- 
ner that  it  was  nine  o'clock  when  we  arrived 
there.  We  found  the  little  park  black  with 
people,  and  firemen  with  a  scaling  ladder 
were  just  placing  it  against  our  hotel. 

"'What  is  the  trouble?'  asked  I  of  a 
man,  in  elemental  French.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  pointed  up,  and  there,  on  a 
cornice  of  the  hotel,  a  perfectly  inaccessible 
place,  stood  Tom,  shouting  with  glee  and 
saying,  '  Never  touched  me ! '  when  firemen 
tried  to  reach  him  from  the  windows  be- 
neath." 

"  How  did  he  get  out  of  the  sewer?  "  I 
asked  of  Tom's  father. 

"  Why,  the  rogue  had  left  the  sewer  with 
us,  but  had  run  on  ahead,  and  when  we 
missed  him  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  hotel. 


86  Too  Much  Boy 

I'll  never  know  all  the  dreadful  things  he 
did  there  that  afternoon,  but  the  firemen 
rescued  him  at  last,  and  then  I  spanked  him 
and  tied  him  to  his  bed  and  took  a  train  by 
the  Gare  du  Nord  for  the  country,  and  spent 
a  happy  night  in  the  middle  of  a  cornfield. 
And  next  day  I  engaged  passage  by  this 
steamer  and  shifted  all  responsibility  to  Mrs. 
Maberly.  That's  why  my  trip  is  a  failure. 
That's  why  I'm  the  talk  of  the  ship. 
That's  why  I  have  no  tan.  When  I  leave 
America  again  I  will  see  to  it  that  the  boy 
is  left  in  the  orphan  asylum  before  I  sail." 


The  Cosmopolitanism  of 
Mr.  Powers 

I  AM  very  much  influenced  by  the  people 
I  meet.  I  have  talked  with  men  and 
women  who  in  five  minutes,  without  say- 
ing a  flattering  word  to  me,  have  made 
me  feel  that  I  would  amount  to  something 
if  death  kept  away  long  enough,  and  I've 
always  cut  off  my  interviews  with  such 
people  at  an  untimely  period,  for  fear  I 
would  grow  too  fond  of  myself.  There  are 
others  who  make  me  feel  idiotic.  They  do 
not  tell  me  that  they  doubt  the  existence  of 
my  brains,  but  after  I  have  talked  with  them 
a  few  minutes  I  become  doddering  and  im- 
becile, and  I  terminate  these  interviews  also. 
Then  there  are  persons  who  make  me  feel 
that  I  am  a  very  poor  and  mongrel  breed  of 
worm;  they  are  so  infinitely  superior. 


88  Cosmopolitanism 

I  never  felt  more  worm-like  or  more  in 
need  of  turning — as  worms  do,  for  exercise 
— than  when  I  was  talking  with  V.  S.  Pow- 
ers, who  condescended  to  honor  with  his 
presence  the  steamship  that  carried  me  over 
the  Atlantic  from  New  York. 

His  full  name  was  Vernon  Stowe  Powers: 
but,  after  watching  him  tread  the  deck  as  if 
he  were  the  owner  of  the  ocean  and  had 
kindly  given  the  steamship  company  the 
right  of  way,  some  wag  christened  him 
"  Very  Superior  Powers,"  and  the  nickname 
stuck. 

He  was  very  superior  to  the  ruck.  All 
the  rest  of  us  were  the  ruck.  There  were 
several  college  professors  and  an  artist  or 
two  and  a  hand-made  millionaire,  and  there 
was  one  Harvard  man  whose  ancestors  to 
the  number  of  four  generations  had  been 
baptized  in  the  same  font  of  learning;  but 
they  were  all  ruck. 

The  first  thing  that  suggested  his  superi- 
ority was  his  sampling  of  his  food.  Those 


Cosmopolitanism  89 

of  us  who  were  not  seasick  had  ravenous  ap- 
petites, and  we  were  really  not  in  a  position 
to  judge  of  the  worth  of  the  meals  set  before 
us.  The  sea  winds  had  bottled  up  dozens 
of  the  "  best  sauce."  But  Mr.  Powers  never 
allowed  his  hunger  to  get  the  better  of  his 
critical  faculty,  and  he  made  us  all  feel  that 
we  were  not  used  to  anything  much  at  home 
by  dabbling  at  his  oatmeal,  pecking  at  his 
meat,  daintily  sipping  his  coffee,  his  nostrils 
distended  like  those  of  an  Arabian  charger; 
and  when  he  had  finished  his  meal, — which 
was  always  long  before  anybody  else  had, — 
he  would  push  his  plate  away,  and  leave  the 
table  with  a  sigh  and  a  fervent  ejaculation, 
"  Thank  Heaven,  another  meal  is  finished !  " 
It  was  a  new  kind  of  grace,  and  one  that  he 
never,  to  my  knowledge,  omitted  at  any 
meal,  and  he  did  not  miss  one  from  port  to 
port. 

I  once  said  to  him :  "  Too  bad  you  didn't 
take  one  of  the  ocean  greyhounds,  where 
they  make  more  of  a  specialty  of  the  table." 


90  Cosmopolitanism 

"  My  dear  fellow/'  said  he,  and  I  felt  my- 
self assuming  worm-like  proportions  at 
once,  "  I  have  probably  tried  every  line  that 
crosses  this  stream,  and  I  merely  took  this 
for  the  novelty  of  it.  The  fact  is,  to  be  quite 
candid,  I  engaged  passage  on  this  steamer 
at  twenty-four  hours'  notice  because  I  could 
not  stand  America  any  longer." 

This  declaration  and  his  somewhat  Eng- 
lish hat,  and  the  English  cut  of  his  clothes 
made  me  certain  that  he  was  a  native  of  Al- 
bion, so  I  said : 

"  Oh,  then  you  were  disappointed  in  your 
visit.  You  must  be  glad  to  be  slowly  get- 
ting back  to  the  delicious  English  cookery." 

Even  a  worm  can  be  sarcastic,  and  that's 
what  I  meant  to  be,  but  he  did  not  see  it. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  like  English  cookery.  Don't, 
don't  think  that  of  me.  The  French  are  the 
only  cooks,  of  course,  as  years  of  residence 
in  Paris  has  taught  me.  But  I'm  not  Eng- 
lish. I'm  a  cosmopolite,  and  I  was  born  in 
New  Haven." 


Cosmopolitanism  91 

"  Indeed,  I  come  from  Hartford  way  my- 
self," said  I,  glad  to  find  a  man  from  my  own 
State,  even  if  he  were  fleeing  from  its  bor- 
ders with  gladness. 

"  Yes,  I  was  born  in  New  Haven,  and  I 
know  that  little  crowd  from  A  to  Z,"  said 
he.  "  Petty,  petty,  petty/'  he  continued, 
with  one  of  the  sourest  expressions  I  ever 
saw.  He  was,  for  the  moment,  the  personi- 
fication of  a  lemon,  and  I  fancied  that  his 
'  face  assumed  a  yellowish  tinge. 

"What's  petty?"  I  asked  as  we  left  the 
taffrail,  on  which  we  had  been  leaning,  and 
began  to  promenade  the  decks  together. 

"  New  Haven,"  said  he.  "  Petty  and  nar- 
row and  provincial.  I've  just  been  back 
there  on  legal  business,  and  they  are  leading 
the  same  lives  they  led  when  I  was  last  there, 
ten  years  ago." 

I  suggested  that  New  Haven  people  were 
not  peculiarly  gifted  as  to  the  number  of 
their  lives ;  that  they  had  not  a  feline  appor- 
tionment, and  that  once  begun,  they  would 


92  Cosmopolitanism 

be  apt  to  lead  the  only  life  they  had  until 
the  leading-string  was  parted  by  time. 

"  No ;  but  everyone  is  so  content  with 
his  little  finite  self  and  his  little  finite  way. 
They  seem  to  forget  that  there  is  a  great 
world  outside  New  Haven " 

"  Hartford,  for  instance,"  said  I. 

"  Yes;  Hartford  is  not  nearly  so  narrow. 
But  it's  all  touched  by  the  same  insular 
spirit.  New  England  is  an  aggregation  of 
hubs " 

"  And  where  there  are  hubs  there  are  al- 
ways wheels,  I  suppose  you  mean,  isms  and 
the  like." 

He  did  not  smile  at  my  anaemic  jest. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  "  to  one  who  has 
traveled,  as  I  have,  to  every  quarter  of  the 
globe,  this  belief  of  America  in  her  destiny 
is  mortifying.  When  I  am  in  Europe  I  for- 
get America.  I  actually  forget  her  for 
weeks  at  a  time." 

He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  did  not  expect 
me  to  credit  him,  but  I  did. 


Cosmopolitanism  93 

"  Now,  when  I'm  in  America,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  I  don't  forget  England  or  the  Con- 
tinent— they  make  themselves  felt;  but  with 
America,  poor,  new,  crude  America,  out  of 
sight  is  out  of  mind." 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  a  great  future  for 
America  in  her  art  and  her  music  and  her 
literature  and  her  architecture?  " 

He  looked  at  me  as  a  man  looks  at  a  baby 
who  has  upset  its  pap. 

"  Some  years  ago,  Sydney  Smith,  I  think 
it  was,  said :  '  Who  reads  an  American 
book?"  If  he  were  living  now  I  could 
truthfully  tell  him  that  I  don't.  For  me 
there  is  only  one  literature,  and  that  is  Ger- 
man. Just  as  France  is  the  great  cook,  so 
Germany  is  the  great  litterateur." 

I  ventured  to  say,  in  as  much  voice  as  a 
worm  could  muster,  that  it  seemed  to  me 
that  we  were  holding  our  own  in  all  the  arts, 
and  that  probably  the  coming  century  would 
see  America  the  foremost  musical  nation. 
I  wanted  to  see  how  he'd  take  such  a  bold 


94  Cosmopolitanism 

statement.  He  took  it  hard.  I  thought  he 
would  faint. 

"  Not  really !  Is  that  your  honest 
opinion?"  said  he,  after  weathering  the 
shock. 

I  wished  that  worms  had  more  backbone, 
because  I  felt  myself  writhing,  but  I  man- 
aged to  whisper  something  about  the  great 
composers  of  the  future  being  Americans, 
and  that  perhaps  some  of  them  were  out  of 
their  cradles  already. 

"  Oh,  my  poor  fellow,  what  a  hopeless 
provincial  you  are!  Americans  have  a  cer- 
tain mimetic  ability;  so  has  the  ape:  but 
America  will  never  lead  except  in  the  realm 
of  mechanics.  Now,  I  have  heard  all  the 
music  of  all  the  lands:  the  wild,  barbaric 
strains  of  the  Dahomeyans,  the  hideous  dis- 
cords of  the  Japanese,  the  rude  melodies  of 
the  Fuegians,  as  well  as  the  harmonies  of  all 
the  civilized  nations,  and  to  me  Russia  is  the 
high  priest  of  modern  music.  But,  do  you 
know,  I  rather  like  your  standing  up  for 


Cosmopolitanism  95 

American  music.  This  is  your  first  voyage, 
I  believe.  Oh,  you  have  so  much,  so  very 
much  to  learn,  my  dear  fellow.  American 
music  does  not  carry  across  the  waters. 
Europe  never  hears  it.  That's  what  counts, 
you  know.  It  isn't  what  Americans  think 
of  themselves,  but  what  Europeans  think  of 
Americans.  /  know  what  they  think  of  us, 
and  7  think  like  them  because  /  am  more  a 
cosmopolite  than  an  American,  in  spite  of 
the  accident  of  my  birth." 

"  Where  were  your  parents  accidentally 
born?"  I  asked — which  was  rather  bold  of 
a  worm. 

"  Oh,  my  ancestors  have  been  Americans 
since  1639,"  said  he^  and  it  amused  me  to  see 
that  he  was  proud  of  it,  cosmopolite  though 
he  was.  In  fact,  he  was  proud  of  anything 
that  appertained  to  Vernon  Stowe  Powers 
in  any  degree. 

Just  then  the  orchestra  struck  up.  Now, 
it  is  true  that  the  bancTwas  not  much  above 
the  level  of  a  Staten  Island  ferry-boat  harp- 


96  Cosmopolitanism 

and-violin  duo,  but  most  of  us  discounted 
that  fact,  and  steeled  our  ears  against  the 
cacophony,  and  tried  to  remember  that  the 
young  men  were  working  hard  for  their 
tips,  and  took  this  unmusical  way  of 
doing  it. 

But  Mr.  Powers  distended  his  nostrils  un- 
til they  reminded  me  of  the  india-rubber 
man,  so-caoutchouckian  were  they. 

"  That  isn't  the  Boston  Symphony  orches- 
tra, is  it  ?  "  said  I  laughingly. 

"  It  certainly  isn't  the  Berlin  orchestra. 
I  can't  speak  of  the  American  orchestras,  ex- 
cept by  hearsay.  But  isn't  it  an  outrage  to 
put  upon  us?  As  if  it  wasn't  enough  to  give 
us  food  that  a  mendicant  would  spurn,  they 
must  torture  us  with  such  discords  as  this. 
It  turns  my  ears  inside  out.  And  such  stuff 
as  they  play !  I  suppose  that's  some  of  your 
American  music." 

"  No;  that's  the  nocturne  from  Mendels- 
sohn's '  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,'  "  said 
I,  with  a  worm's  glee. 


Cosmopolitanism  97 

Most  men  would  have  been  squelched  by 
this.  I  would  have  worked  down  into  the 
soil  to  stay  there  until  the  next  wet  morning 
brought  me  out  as  bait,  but  he  never  turned  a 
hair. 

"  I  knew  it  wasn't  Russian,"  he  said,  and 
said  it  in  such  a  way  that  I  felt  he  had  some- 
how turned  the  tables  on  me.  "  Very  Su- 
perior "  Powers  he  had. 

Long  before  the  voyage  was  over  the  pas- 
sengers got  up  a  round-robin,  couched  in 
respectful  terms,  asking  Him  if  he  wouldn't 
select  an  extra  fine  life-preserver  and  jump 
overboard,  which  would  be  an  easy  way  of 
avoiding  the  music  and  the  meals  and  the 
passengers.  They  wanted  me  to  hand  it  to 
him,  but  I  lacked  the  presence.  So  he  stayed 
on  board  until  we  made  port ;  but  there  was 
not  a  moment  that  he  did  not  show  how  su- 
perior he  was  to  anyone  else.  He  hated  to 
praise  anything  that  had  been  praised  by  an- 
other. Once  a  passenger  who  was  standing 
by  his  side,  looking  at  the  moonlight  on  the 


98  Cosmopolitanism 

water,  said :  "  It's  a  beautiful  ocean,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  he  with  a  sigh  of 
ennui.  "  I've  crossed  it  so  often  that  its 
beauty  palls  on  me.  And  it  hasn't  the  pic- 
turesque quality  of  the  Pacific  or  even  the 
Indian  Ocean.  I  might  almost  say  that  I 
know  every  wave  on  those  oceans,  but  they 
never  lose  their  charm  for  me;  but  the  At- 
lantic, this  trip  especially,  is  so  infernally 
quiet,  don't  you  know.  I  like  to  cross  in  a 
series  of  tempests.  I'm  generally  the  only 
one  on  board,  except  the  captain,  who  isn't 
seasick.  But  of  course  this  old  tub  wouldn't 
stand  heavy  seas.  Five  days  more  of  it. 
Fancy!" 

The  other  passenger  said  that  he  was  get- 
ting a  good  deal  of  fun  out  of  the  process 
of  studying  human  nature. 

"  Human  nature?  In  this  crowd!  Well, 
there  is  human  nature  and  human  nature, 
but  I  prefer  to  study  it  in  the  world's  great 
capitals,  Rome  and  London  and  Moscow. 


"  I   SUPPOSE  YOU  ARE   LOOKING   FORWARD  TO   THE 
PARIS   EXPOSITION?"— P.   99. 


Cosmopolitanism  99 

These  poor  yokels,  who  are  so  easily  pleased, 
haven't  any  human  nature  worth  talking 
about.  A  man  who  is  easily  pleased  sets 
himself  down  as  commonplace  at  once. 
Now,  when  I  am  pleased  it's  because  some- 
thing very  much  worth  while  has  happened, 
and  this  voyage  was  not  worth  while.  I 
never  would  have  taken  it  if  I  hadn't  been 
so  anxious  to  get  away  from  the  irritations 
of  complacent  America." 

Then  the  other  passenger  left,  and  two 
minutes  later  I  found  him  kicking  a  coil  of 
rope  all  by  himself,  and  he  never  knew  that 
I  saw  him.  But  I  had  overheard  the  con- 
versation, and  I  sympathized  with  his  feel- 
ings. 

The  last  day  of  the  trip  a  dear  old  lady 
said  to  Mr.  Powers  quite  innocently :  "  I 
suppose  you're  looking  forward  to  the  Paris 
Exposition?  " 

I  didn't  hear  his  answer,  but  I  dare  say 
that  he  told  her  that  there  was  nothing  in 
the  Paris  Exposition  to  tempt  him;  that  he 


ioo          Cosmopolitanism 

had  seen  one  on  the  Congo  in  '85  that  laid 
over  anything  that  Paris  could  do.  The  old 
lady  looked  squelched,  and  he  left  her 
and  walked  away  with  his  head  in  the 
air. 

That  day  I  came  upon  him  at  dinner, — he 
was  always  the  first  to  come  to  table,  and 
the  first  to  go  away, — and  before  he  could 
wither  me  with  his  glance,  I  said  briskly: 
"  By  the  way,  are  you  going  to  the  Exposi- 
tion?" 

He  shook  his  head  pityingly  for  some 
seconds  before  he  answered  me. 

"  You  don't  know  me,  evidently.  Do  I 
look  like  a  man  who  would  visit  a  mere  ex- 
position? I'm  not  a  Western  ranchman  or  a 
New  England  farmer,  or  a  French  peasant 
who  is  crazy  to  see  the  world  for  the  first 
time.  I  know  the  world,  and  it  is  very  small. 
I  was  a  mere  youngster  when  the  Centen- 
nial Exhibition  occurred  in  Philadelphia,  but 
I  knew  better  than  to  go  to  it,  even  then. 
Instinct  is  a  great  thing,  and  I  have  it.  It 


Cosmopolitanism  101 

saves  me  a  lot  of  bother.  Why  should  I  join 
a  crowd  of  gaping  wanderers  from  every 
country  in  the  world  in  order  to  look  at  a 
lot  of  breadstuffs  and  fabrics,  and  cheap 
pictures  and  hastily  constructed  buildings? 
Oh,  no;  life  is  too  short  for  such  childish 
pleasures.  I  hate  crowds.  Every  self-re- 
specting man  hates  crowds,  because  crowds 
are  bound  to  be  made  up  of  the  riffraff. 
There  may  be  such  a  thing  as  a  crowd  of 
gentlemen,  but  it  does  not  last  long.  The 
instinct  of  each  member  of  it  is  to  get  away, 
and  that  dissolves  the  crowd." 

"  Yes;  but  you  can  go  early  in  the  morn- 
ing and  avoid  the  crowd,"  said  a  man  op- 
posite. 

"  I  value  my  mornings  too  much,"  said 
he,  dilating  his  nostrils.  "  Besides,  an  ex- 
position is  a  rather  childish  enjoyment  for 
one  who  has  been  everywhere  and  seen 
everything.  Why  should  I  look  on  a  painted 
panorama  of  Egypt  when  I  have  sailed  down 
the  Nile,  or  gaze  at  locomotives  from  Amer- 


IO2  Cosmopolitanism 

ica  when  I  have  just  gladly  shaken  her  iron- 
filings  off  my  feet?  No;  my  pleasures  are 
loftier  ones."  He  pushed  his  plate  away 
from  him  in  a  cosmopolite  way.  "  Thank 
Heaven,  the  last  meal  is  finished !  "  And  so 
saying,  he  left  the  room. 

It  happened  that  I  did  not  see  him  again 
in  the  bustle  of  departure.  I  thought  of  him 
many  times,  however,  and  always  as  being 
engaged  in  some  very  superior  occupation: 
chatting  with  the  Czar,  or  going  on  picnics 
with  Tolstoi,  or  pacing  the  Russian  steppes 
alone;  for  somehow  I  judged  that  he  had 
chosen  Russia  to  be  dignified  by  his  foot- 
steps. Therefore  I  was  much  surprised  to 
find  him  one  evening  at  the  Exposition  in 
the  crowd  outside  one  of  the  little  theaters 
in  the  Rue  de  Paris.  I  could  not  understand 
it.  I  looked  around  at  those  who  surrounded 
him  to  see  if,  perchance,  they  were  also  cos- 
mopolitans. No.  There  was  a  Turk,  a 
German  couple,  evidently  peasants,  a  Japa- 
nese actor,  a  Russian  Jew,  several  French- 


Cosmopolitanism  1 03 

men,  and  some  American  "  Cook's,"  who 
only  waited  a  moment  and  then  pressed 
feverishly  on,  as  is  their  wont — not  a  cos- 
mopolite in  the  crowd  except  Vernon  Stowe 
Powers. 

I  could  not  imagine  why  he  had  changed 
his  mind  and  come  to  the  Exposition  after 
all,  but,  for  various  reasons,  I  did  not  dis- 
cover myself  to  him.  He  had  evidently 
risen  far  above  the  crowd  and  would  be  in 
no  mood  to  converse  with  a  worm. 

But  while  I  stood  somewhat  back  of  him, 
enjoying  the  pleasantries  of  the  actors  on 
the  little  balcony,  who,  with  true  Gallic  ease 
and  grace,  invited  the  populace  to  come  in- 
side and  witness  the  play,  a  Frenchman,  evi- 
dently a  stranger  to  my  quondam  shipmate, 
turned  to  him  with  a  smile,  and  made  a  re- 
mark that  even  I  understood.  I  looked  for 
a  condescending  flow  of  French  to  be  poured 
on  the  Parisian's  head,  with  possibly  an  im- 
plied correction  of  the  native's  accent. 
But  the  world-traveler,  the  ennuied  one  who 


IO4          Cosmopolitanism 

had  absorbed  all  civilizations,  said,  with  an 
apologetic  air: 

"  I  don't  speak  French." 

Could  it  have  been  Mr.  Powers's  first  voy- 
age, even  as  it  was  mine? 


An  Eastern  Easter 

MY  uncle's  name,  like  my  own,  is 
Robert  Burns  McPherson,  but,  un- 
like myself,  he  is  not  a  poet.  In  fact,  he  has 
no  profession,  but  being  independently 
wealthy  he  delights  in  preparing  for  his  rela- 
tives little  surprises  that  sometimes  take  odd 
forms.  I  could  not  have  been  more  than  ten 
when  he  invited  me  to  a  birthday  dinner  at 
which  trout  formed  the  principal  dish;  and 
when  he  had  helped  me  and  I  proceeded  to 
bone  my  fish — a  feat  that  I  had  already 
learnt — I  found  a  gold  eagle  secreted  in  the 
interior. 

It  was  some  years  after  that  my  sister 
Marcella  went  out  to  the  henhouse  one 
morning  (we  lived  in  the  country  then)  and 
found  an  upright  piano  almost  completely 

filling  the  place.     She  suspected  that  Uncle 
105 


io6        An  Eastern  Easter 

Bob  had  been  at  work,  and  when  she  found 
a  note  tacked  on  the  back  of  the  piano,  say- 
ing :  "  For  a  musical  girl — from  one  who 
loves  her/'  she  knew  that  it  was  a  present. 
If  she  had  been  a  little  older  she  might  have 
thought  it  was  a  crazy  place  to  leave  a 
present,  but  as  it  was  she  was  delighted  be- 
yond all  measure.  It  seemed  to  have 
dropped  from  the  clouds.  To  be  sure  the 
hired  man  and  a  helper  found  it  a  Herculean 
task  to  get  it  into  the  house  without  the  ap- 
proved implements  for  moving  pianos;  and 
it  was  pretty  well  scratched  before  it  found 
its  way  to  the  parlor.  But  when  Uncle  Bob 
came  that  evening  and  found  Marcella  play- 
ing it  he  was  so  happy  and  she  was  so  over- 
joyed that  my  mother  could  not  scold  him 
for  his  freakishness. 

He  has  always  said  that  when  he  died  he 
did  not  expect  to  leave  anything  to  anybody ; 
he  preferred  to  give  it  away  while  he  was 
yet  alive. 

So   much   by   way   of   preamble.      Last 


An  Eastern  Easter         107 

spring,  towards  the  end  of  Lent,  my  pub- 
lishers brought  out  a  book  of  mine  called 
"  An  Eastern  Easter,"  being  a  serious  poem 
of  some  length.  The  first  copy  came  to  me 
while  I  was  out,  and  my  sister  Marcella 
opened  it,  and  then  left  it  lying  on  the  center 
table  in  the  parlor.  An  hour  or  two  later 
I  came  home  and  found  it  there,  and  without 
stopping  to  look  at  it — for  I  had  already 
seen  a  copy  at  my  publisher's — I  wrapped  it 
up  and  ran  round  the  corner  to  give  it  to  my 
dear  friend  Enos  Dane,  who  was  to  sail  next 
day  for  Europe  on  the  Holl  and  America 
line. 

He  was  so  awfully  busy  packing  that  he 
did  not  open  it  either,  but  told  me  that  it 
would  be  his  first  pleasure  after  the  vessel 
started  to  read  the  book,  and  he  would  then 
write  me  a  long,  critical  letter.  Dane  has 
been  one  of  my  kindest  and  yet  one  of  my 
severest  critics,  and  it  is  due  to  him  that  I 
ventured  upon  writing  so  serious  a  poem  as 
"  An  Eastern  Easter,"  which  I  may  say, 


io8        An  Eastern  Easter 

without  offense,  is  modeled  after  Sir  Edwin 
Arnold's  "  Light  of  Asia." 

I  was  a  little  disappointed  that  Enos  did 
not  open  the  package,  as  I  thought  that  they 
had  bound  the  book  very  prettily,  and  I  like 
his  judgment  on  such  matters;  and  I 
wouldn't  have  minded,  to  tell  the  truth,  if 
he  had  asked  me  to  read  the  first  hundred 
stanzas  or  so.  There  are  seven  hundred  in 
all,  eight  lines  to  a  stanza,  very  easy-flow- 
ing, if  I  do  say  it.  But  that  has  nothing  to 
do  with  what  followed. 

The  next  morning  Uncle  Bob  dropped  in 
while  we  were  at  breakfast,  and  from  the 
twinkle  in  his  eye  I  knew  that  he  had  been 
up  to  one  of  his  "  benevolences/'  as  we  call 
them  in  the  family. 

"  Rather  nice  book  of  poems  that  of 
yours,"  said  he. 

"  Oh,  have  you  seen  it?  "  I  said,  for  I  did 
not  suppose  the  stores  would  have  exposed 
it  for  sale  so  soon. 

"Yes,  I  saw  your  copy  yesterday  after- 


An  Eastern  Easter         109 

noon.  Thought  I'd  give  it  a  send-off. 
Didn't  you  find  the  book-marks?" 

"Book-marks?  No,"  I  said.  "I  have 
hardly  looked  at  the  book,  for  I  wanted  Dane 
to  have  the  first  copy.  You  know  he  sug- 
gested my  writing  the  poem." 

My  uncle's  expression  changed.  "  Do 
you  mean  you  have  given  the  book  away 
without  looking  at  it?  "  said  he  hurriedly. 

"  Yes,  I  took  it  round  to  Dane  last  night. 
You  know  he  sails  for  Europe  this  morn- 
ing " 

"  Why,  man,  I  put  ten  bills  of  a  thousand 
each  in  it  just  for  a  starter  to  bring  you  good 
luck." 

"Oh,  you  jewel  of  an  uncle!"  cried  I, 
glancing  at  the  clock. 

I  remember  that  my  feeling  of  gratitude 
was  mixed  up  with  a  wish  that  he  had  chosen 
a  more  conventional  way  of  making  the  gift. 
It  was  nine  o'clock  and  the  Mtildam  sailed 
at  ten.  I  had  noticed  that  in  the  paper  that 
morning. 


no        An  Eastern  Easter 

I  sprang  from  the  table,  and,  saying  "  I 
must  get  that  book,"  I  was  gone  like  a  shot, 
stopping  only  to  pick  up  my  hat.  I  live  in 
Harlem,  and  I  had  a  little  over  an  hour  to 
get  to  the  company's  docks  at  Hoboken,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Hudson  River.  I  took 
;an  elevated  train  down  to  Tweaity-third 
Street. 

I  may  as  well  admit  that  I  was  not  at  that 
time  so  well  blessed  with  this  world's  goods 
that  I  could  hazard  the  loss  of  ten  thousand 
dollars  without  an  effort.  Dane  might  look 
at  the  book  up  on  deck  and  turn  a  page  that 
concealed  the  bills  just  in  time  to  catch  a 
passing  breeze,  and  then  where  would  my 
money  be  ? 

At  Twenty-third  Street  I  hailed  a  cab,  and 
promised  the  man  five  dollars  if  he  would 
get  me  to  the  Holl  pier  ten  minutes  before 
the  boat  sailed.  I  happened  to  have  ten  dol- 
lars in  my  pocket  or  I  should  have  been  in  a 
fix. 

There  were  no  incidents  connected  with 


An  Eastern  Easter         in 

my  getting  to  Hoboken,  and  I  arrived  there 
in  time,  paid  my  man,  and  rushed  up  the 
gang  plank.  There  I  found  everything  in 
confusion.  I  did  not  know  the  number  of 
Dane's  cabin,  and  no  one  else  seemed  to 
know.  I  tried  to  find  the  purser,  but  he  was 
as  hard  to  find  as  Dane.  Hurried  and  wor- 
ried as  I  was  I  did  notice  a  Junoesque  girl 
with  great  ox  eyes,  and  I  said  to  myself: 
"  If  I  could  have  known  someone  like  you  I 
would  not  be  a  bachelor  to-day."  Such  in- 
consequent thoughts  do  make  the  transit 
of  a  man's  brain.  Just  then  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Dane,  and  I  followed  him  until 
he  disappeared  in  an  inside  cabin.  I  knocked 
at  his  door;  but  just  then  the  deep-throated 
whistle  boomed  and  he  did  not  hear  me.  I 
could  hear  the  people  who  had  come  to  see 
their  friends  off  leaving  the  boat  in  shoals, 
but  still  I  stood  there  and  knocked.  It  must 
have  been  five  minutes  before  the  door 
opened,  and  then — it  was  not  Dane  at  all, 
but  a  man  built  and  dressed  like  him. 


H2         An  Eastern  Easter 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I.  "  I 
thought  you  were  my  friend  Dane,  who  has 
ten  thousand  dollars  of  mine,  and  I  was  in  a 
hurry  because  I'm  not  going  across,  you 
know." 

"  Going  back  with  the  pilot  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  going  now.  Where  can 
Dane  be?  "  And  I  rushed  up  the  stairs  to 
see  the  lordly  Hudson  flowing  all  around  me 
and  Hoboken  growing  smaller  every  mo- 
ment. I  was  on  my  way  to  Europe ! 

For  a  moment  I  was  scared,  but  the  words 
of  the  man  whom  I  had  disturbed  came  back 
to  me,  and  I  determined  to  act  on  his  sug- 
gestion and  go  back  with  the  pilot.  Mean- 
time I  must  find  Dane.  From  bow  to  stern, 
upstairs  and  downstairs,  or  whatever  you 
call  it  on  board  ship,  I  went,  but  no  Dane  ap- 
peared. Could  he  have  missed  the  steamer? 
But  no,  he  was  the  soul  of  punctuality.  Per- 
haps he  was  indisposed  and  in  his  cabin. 
But  where  was  his  cabin? 

I  had  an  idea  that  there  would  be  a  blare 


An  Eastern  Easter         113 

of  trumpets  and  a  roll  of  drums  and  no  end 
of  things  when  the  pilot  left,  and  I  listened 
for  the  engines  to  slacken  the  while  I  looked 
for  Dane;  but  it  seems  that  the  pilot  does 
not  need  to  stop  the  boat  in  order  to  get  off. 

The  purser  had  hitherto  been  hidden 
somewhere,  but  now  I  found  him  and  got 
from  him  a  passenger  list.  I  eagerly  scanned 
the  D's.  "  Dalbreger,  Damen,  Dayton, 

Eaton "    Dane  was  not  on  the  passenger 

list!  That  was  horrible  discovery  number 
one.  And  I  was  so  sure  that  he  had  sailed 
on  the  Humbug- American  Line.  The  Hum- 
bug-American! And  this  was  the  Holl  and 
America  Line!  I  always  mix  those  two 
lines.  I  had  no  idea  when  the  steamer  of 
that  line  would  sail.  Perhaps  she  had  left 
already.  Oh,  how  idiotic  I  had  been !  Well, 
at  any  rate,  I  would  have  a  pleasant  sail  up 
the  bay  with  the  pilot  with  a  chance  of 
getting  Dane  after  all.  It  will  be  seen  that 
I  am  philosophical.  I  said  to  the  purser: 
"  My  friend  is  not  on  board." 


114         An  Eastern  Easter 

He  was  busy  finding  places  at  table  for 
various  passengers  who  were  besieging  him, 
but  he  said  politely,  in  his  idiom :  "  Ah, 
that  is  too  badly.  But  you  will  make  friends 
on  the  voyage." 

"  But  I'm  not  going,  you  know.  I'm 
going  back  with  the  pilot." 

The  purser  stared  at  me  as  if  he  thought 
I  was  a  lunatic,  and  several  of  the  passengers 
turned  and  looked  at  me  with  amused  inter- 
est. 

"  The  pilot  departed  already  a  half-hour 
ago,"  said  he. 

I  dropped  into  a  chair  opposite  him  and 
said,  in  a  helpless  sort  of  way:  "The 
pilot  departed?  Then  how  can  I  get 
home?" 

I  heard  a  sardonic-looking  man  say  to  his 
wife :  "  Get  out  and  walk,"  and  I  blushed. 

But  the  purser  said :  "  You  will  make  the 
return  trip  on  the  steamer.  She  shall  be  back 
in  four  weeks." 

He  seemed  to  think  that  it  was  quite  an 


An  Eastern  Easter         115 

ordinary  thing  for  a  man  to  get  carried  off  to 
Europe  by  mistake. 

"  But  I  have  only  five  dollars  with  me.  I 
didn't  come  to  go.  I  mean  I  came  to  go — I 
came  to  go  back  with  the  pilot — that  is,"  said 
I,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  all  these  people 
were  upon  me,  "  I  came  to  get  my  money 
from  Mr.  Dane,  and  he  is  on  the  Humbug- 
American  Line." 

The  purser  said  with  Dutch  phlegm: 
"  You  will  have  to  see  the  captain.  The 
whistle  blew  to  get  off  all  the  people  already." 

And  then  he  turned  to  the  applicants  for 
advantageous  seats  at  the  table,  and  I  sat 
down  feeling  rather  queer  within,  and  for 
the  first  time  noticed  the  motion  of  the  vessel. 
I  knew  I  was  growing  whiter  and  whiter. 
The  purser  evidently  noticed  it  also,  for  he 
said :  "  Now  go  up  and  sniff  some  air.  It 
is  closely  down  here."  He  evidently  prided 
himself  on  his  English.  "  I  will  send  you 
to  the  captain  later." 

I  half  expected  to  be  put  at  peeling  pota- 


n6        An  Eastern  Easter 

toes  to  work  my  passage.  That  is  what  I 
had  heard  they  made  stowaways  do. 

What  would  Marcella  say?  And  how 
Uncle  Bob  would  worry.  And  what  would 
I  do,  with  no  change  of  linen,  no  vest,  no 
overcoat  or  steamer  rug?  Then  I  began  to 
feel  so  ill  that  I  did  not  care  what  happened. 
I  rushed  upstairs  and  made  my  way  to  the 
side  of  the  boat,  and  watched  the  restless 
waves  until  I  was  in  a  better  frame  of 
mind — to  put  it  euphemistically. 

I  had  heard  that  it  is  good  to  walk  as  much 
as  possible  when  at  sea,  so  I  began  to  pace  to 
and  fro  and  gradually  felt  better,  and  at  last 
took  my  stand  in  front  of  the  pilot-house 
— if  that  is  what  they  call  it — and  won- 
dered what  was  going  to  be  the  outcome 
of  all  this. 

A  sweet,  low  voice  at  my  side  said :  "  Oh, 
look  at  those  porpoises ! "  and  I  turned  and 
saw  my  Junoesque  young  woman. 

"  Are  those  porpoises  ?  "  said  I.  "  I  never 
saw  any  before." 


An  Eastern  Easter         117 

I  knew  that  land  conventions  did  not  hold 
at  sea,  and  I  talked  to  her  freely. 

14  Yes,"  said  she.  "Is  this  your  first 
trip?" 

"  Well,  ye-yes.  I'm  really  not  sure  if  it 
is  my  trip  at  all.  You  see,  I  didn't  mean  to 
come,  and  I  don't  know  what  the  captain 
will  do  with  me." 

She  looked  at  me  in  wonder  for  a  moment, 
and  then  laughed  the  sweetest  laugh  ever 
heard.  "  Do  you  suppose  he'll  give  you  a 
life-preserver  and  let  you  swim  back?  But, 
tell  me,  didn't  you  really  mean  to  come?" 
Then  she  looked  me  all  over,  the  way  a 
woman  will,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was 
thinking :  "  He  is  a  little  too  well-dressed 
to  be  a  stowaway." 

When  I  am  perturbed  I  have  a  way  of 
getting  mixed  up  in  my  speech.  "  Why, 
you  see,  I  came  after  Mr.  Dane's  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  that  I  had  in  his  book — that  is, 
my  uncle  put  ten  thousand  dollars  in  Mr. 
Dane's  new  book — that  is,  in  my  new  book 


ii8         An  Eastern  Easter 

that  I  gave  to  Mr.  Dane,  but  not  the  ten 
thousand  dollars.  Those  my  uncle  gave  to 
me  but,  you  see,  he  put  it  in  my  book  for 
Mr.  Dane,  and  so  I  came  on  board  to  get  it 
back " 

"  To  get  the  book  back?" 

"  No,  to  get  the  money  back;  and  Mr. 
Dane  wasn't  on  board  because  he  didn't  go 
by  this  line,  and  so  here  I  am." 

Miss  Delplain — for  this,  as  I  afterwards 
learnt,  was  her  name,  Miss  Dorothy  Del- 
plain,  of  Philadelphia — stared  at  me  as  if  she 
thought  I  was  not  quite  right,  and  just  then 
the  purser  and  the  captain  came  up. 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  the  purser. 

Captain  Zollikoffer  was  a  red-cheeked, 
jolly-looking  fellow.  "  What  is  this  you 
have  done?"  said  he.  "Did  you  come  to 
see  someone  off?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  didn't  come  to  see  him 
off,  because  I'd  seen  him  off  last  night — that 
is,  I  bade  him  good-^by  last  night;  but,  you 
see,  I  gave  him  a  copy  of  my  latest  book. 


An  Eastern  Easter        119 

I'm  Robert  Burns  McPherson,  the  poet,  and 
I  gave  my  book  to  Mr.  Dane;  but  I  didn't 
know  until  this  morning  that  my  uncle  had 
put  ten  thousand  dollars  in  it  for  me,  and 
then  I  came  down  to  the  dock  to  recover 
the  money,  but  I  made  a  mistake  in  the  line 
of  steamers  I  thought  he'd  gone  by — I  al- 
ways make  that  mistake  about  the  Humbug- 
American  Line,  you  know,  and  that  is  the 
line  he's  gone  by — and  I  have  only  five  dol- 
lars with  me  and  the  clothes  on  my  back." 

I  knew  that  the  captain  had  never  heard  of 
my  writings,  but  at  this  point  in  my  some- 
what long  monologue,  the  Junoesque  being 
said: 

"  Oh,  are  you  Mr.  McPherson,  the  poet  ? 
I've  been  dying  to  meet  you.  Didn't  you 
read  at  an  authors'  reading  in  Philadel- 
phia?" 

I  assured  her  that  I  had,  and  had  nearly 
fainted  from  fright  also. 

The  captain  suddenly  burst  out  laughing. 
Something  had  just  struck  him,  "  Oh,  and 


I2O        An  Eastern  Easter 

your  friend  has  your  money,  and  follows  us 
on  the  Humbug  Line  ?  " 

I  told  him  that  that  was  it  exactly,  unless 
he  had  allowed  the  money  to  blow  away. 

"  Such  an  uncle !  "  continued  the  captain. 
"  Does  he  ofttimes  give  you  bills  in  your 
books  like  that?" 

"  He  has  never  done  it  before ;  but  he  put 
a  piano  in  my  little  sister's  henhouse  once." 

The  captain  suddenly  looked  dignified, 
after  the  manner  of  the  Bishop  of  Rumtifoo. 
He  plainly  thought  that  I  was  making  fun 
of  him.  "  Have  you  anything  to  identify 
you  ?  "  said  he. 

I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  and  pulled  out 
a  rejection  from  the  Book-Borrower.  It  was 
a  verse  of  mine  with  a  tenderly  worded, 
printed  slip  to  the  effect  that  the  editors  felic- 
itated themselves  on  the  fact  of  having  had 
a  chance  to  read  my  poem,  and  it  would  be 
one  of  their  lifelong  regrets  that  they  could 
not  use  it  in  the  columns  of  their  magazine. 

Captain  Zollikoffer  took  the  envelope  and 


An  Eastern  Easter         121 

opened  it,  and  put  the  manuscript  in  his 
pocket.  Then  he  put  on  his  eyeglasses  and 
read  the  rejection.  I  don't  imagine  he  un- 
derstood what  it  was  all  about,  for  after  he 
had  read  it  through  he  took  the  manuscript 
out  of  his  pocket  and  read  the  first  line  of 
that.  It  began: 

"  Oft  had  I  thought  when  chilling  night 
was  gone " 

"  Ooh,  poetry !  "  said  he,  and  put  it  back 
in  the  envelope  with  editorial  promptitude. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  will  pay  the  passage 
both  ways  when  you  return " 

"  Fll  pay  it  when  we  get  to  Holland,  if 
Mr.  Dane  has  it,  for  he  will  send  it  to  me, 
I'm  sure." 

"  The  Humbug  liner  will  pass  us  to-night 
or  to-morrow,  and  your  friend  will  arrive  a 
day  before  we  reach  Rotterdam.  Make  your- 
self at  home.  Such  an  uncle ! "  and  he  de- 
parted with  the  purser. 

An  elderly  lady  who  resembled  Miss  Del- 
plain  now  joined  that  young  woman,  and  I 


122        An  Eastern  Easter 

was  presented  to  Mrs.  Delplain,  the  mother 
of  Juno. 

Luckily  for  me,  the  voyage  was  a  smooth 
one,  and  after  the  first  day  I  was  not  sick. 
When  it  became  known  who  I  was,  and  how 
I  came  aboard,  the  passengers  vied  with  each 
other  in  attentions  to  me.  They  lent  me 
linen,  and  the  purser  gave  me  a  steamer  cap, 
and  I  felt  that  the  best  way  to  get  to  Europe 
was  to  do  it  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  But 
I  did  wish  that  nature  had  not  endowed  me 
with  such  a  thin  neck.  After  I  put  away  my 
own  collar  I  found  none  that  were  not  miles 
too  big  for  me. 

As  for  Miss  Delplain,  I  wondered  how  I 
had  been  able  to  live  without  her  society  for 
the  twenty-seven  years  that  have  gone  to 
make  up  my  life.  I  did  not  sit  at  her  table, 
unfortunately,  as  all  the  desirable  seats  had 
been  snapped  up  before  my  status  was  set- 
tled, and  then  I  had  to  be  content  with  what 
I  got.  The  captain  had  suggested  that  I 
travel  second-class;  but  as  that  would  have 


An  Eastern  Easter         123 

cut  me  entirely  off  from  the  fair  Philadel- 
phian's  society,  I  told  him  that  I  would 
rather  pay  the  difference  when  I  got  it. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over  each  day  I 
sought  her  out,  and  we  promenaded  the  boat- 
deck  or  played  shovel-board  until  it  was  time 
for  bouillon.  Then  I  always  left  her  and 
talked  to  various  passengers,  so  that  she 
would  not  tire  of  my  society,  but  as  soon  as 
luncheon  was  over  I  sat  and  chatted  with 
her  and  her  mother  until  it  was  time  for  them 
to  dress  for  dinner.  Alas !  I  could  make  no 
display  of  finer  raiment,  as  I  was  limited  to 
a  sack-coat,  no  vest,  and  either  my  Alpine 
hat  or  the  steamer  cap.  But  in  the  evenings 
I  forgot  that  I  was  not  well  dressed,  and  we 
sat  together,  just  abaft  of  the  place  where 
the  smell  of  cooking  comes  up,  and  talked 
until  her  mother  said  it  was  time  to  turn  in. 

If  the  reader  has  guessed  that  I  fell  in  love 
with  her,  it  does  no  credit  to  his  perspicac- 
ity. Of  course  I  fell  in  love  with  her,  and 
so  quickly  does  a  friendship  on  board  ship 


124         An  Eastern  Easter 

ripen  that  we  felt  as  if  we  had  always  known 
each  other. 

The  Humbug  liner — I  forget  Her  name — 
should  have  passed  us  the  second  day  out, 
and  I  suppose  she  did  so.  However,  on  the 
fifth  day  we  saw  her  standing  still — if  that's 
what  they  call  it.  The  captain  said  that 
something  must  be  the  matter.  I  stood  with 
Miss  Delplain,  watching  her  as  she  rose  and 
fell  on  the  waves.  It  gave  me  a  queer  feeling 
to  reflect  that  here  I  was  practically  penni- 
less, and  there  was  ten  thousand  dollars  of 
mine  not  five  miles  away — if  the  wind  had 
respected  the  bank  bills. 

It  seemed  an  opportune  moment  to  pro- 
pose, and  yet,  as  soon  as  I  thought  of  it,  my 
tongue  became  almost  helpless.  I  made  sev- 
eral false  starts,  and  at  last  I  said : 

"Miss  Delplain,  are  you  good  at  suppos- 
ing?" 

She  said :  "  Why,  yes,  I  can  do  anything 
on  an  ocean  voyage.  What  do  you  want  me 
to  suppose?" 


An  Eastern  Easter         125 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  suppose  I  had  those  ten 
thousand  dollars  in  my  pocket,  that  are,  I 
hope,  on  that  steamer;  suppose  my  book 
were  to  go  like  wildfire,  do  you  suppose 
that — do  you — would  you  be  willing  to  let 
me  place  my  steamer  chair  next  to  yours  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives  ?  " 

I  had  no  idea  how  she  would  take  it,  as  I 
had  never  proposed  before.  In  fact,  as  soon 
as  I  had  said  it,  I  wished  I  hadn't.  But 
she  smiled  a  sweeter  smile  than  I  had 
thought  the  human  face  capable  of,  and 
said 

But,  no — now  that  I  came  to  the  point  of 
writing  what  she  said,  I  cannot  do  it.  There 
are  some  things  too  sacred.  If  this  were  a 
made-up  story  I  might,  but 

I  cannot  express  how  elated  and  at  the 
same  time  how  depressed  her  words  made 
me.  I  pressed  her  hand  silently,  and  went 
downstairs  to  borrow  a  collar  from  a  man 
who  wore  a  number  sixteen. 

On  my  way  back  a  fellow-passenger  said : 


126        An  Eastern  Easter 

"  Hello,  that  steamer's  signaling  to  us. 
What's  the  trouble  ?" 

It  did  not  take  long  for  the  news  to  be- 
come common  property  that  the  Humbug 
liner  had  broken  some  part  of  her  ma- 
chinery and  wanted  us  to  tow  her  into  port. 
This  would,  of  course,  make  us  several  days 
late;  but  as  for  me,  I  felt  that  anything  that 
made  the  time  of  my  sojourn  in  Miss  Del- 
plain's  neighborhood  possible  was  to  be 
welcomed.  It  was  so  interesting  watching 
them  hitch  the  other  steamer  on  behind,  that 
I  entirely  forgot  what  steamer  she  was  until 
I  saw  a  man  standing  on  her  boat-deck  who 
looked  surprisingly  like  Enos  Dane.  He  was 
too  far  away  for  me  to  shout  to  him,  and  too 
far  for  me  to  recognize  him  absolutely  with 
the  naked  eye,  so  I  sought  the  captain. 

"  Captain,"  said  I,  "  I  think  that  the  man 
who  has  my  money  is  standing  on  the  boat- 
deck  of  that  steamer.  Is  there  any  way  of 
asking  him  ?  " 

I  want  to  put  it  on  record  that  the  cap- 


An  Eastern  Easter         127 

tain  was  one  of  the  most  obliging  men  I 
ever  saw.  He  immediately  called  his  first  of- 
ficer, and  told  him  to  get  the  megaphone  and 
ask  the  first  officer  of  the  other  steamer 
whether  Mr.  Dane  was  on  board. 

Before  the  first  officer  could  get  the  meg- 
aphone, the  man  began  looking  at  me  ear- 
nestly through  a  pair  of  field-glasses.  I  ran 
to  Miss  Delplain,  who  was  sitting  with  her 
rnothdr.  "  Come,"  said  I  excitedly,  "  I 
think  that  Mr.  Dane  is  following  us — that 
is,  he's  in  the  other  steamer.  The  first  of- 
ficer is  going  to  megaphone  to  him  to  find 
out." 

As  we  reached  the  first  officer,  he  called 
out :  "  Is  Mr.  Dane,  of  New  York,  on  board 
your  boat  ?  " 

The  man  who  looked  like  Dane  nodded  his 
head,  and  the  first  officer  of  the  other  steamer 
who  heard  the  hoarse  blast  of  the  megaphone 
nodded  also,  and  picked  up  an  old-fashioned 
speaking-trumpet,  such  as  fire  chiefs  use. 
"  Yes,"  said  he.  "  Who  wants  him?  " 


128         An  Eastern  Easter 

The  first  officer  turned  to  me,  and  I  said : 
"  Let  me  take  the  megaphone."  Then  I  put 
it  to  my  lips  and  shouted :  "  My  uncle  put 
some  money  in  my  new  book  of  verse,  and 
I  gave  the  book  to  Mr.  Dane  without  open- 
ing it.  If  you're  Mr.  Dane,  have  you  the 
money  ?  " 

At  these  words,  Mr.  Dane,  all  excitement, 
started  for  the  ladder  that  leads  to  the  pilot- 
house, but  the  first  officer,  of  course,  pre- 
vented his  committing  the  solecism  of 
ascending  it  by  coming  down  himself  and 
handing  the  speaking-trumpet  to  my  friend. 
Miss  Delplain  stood  by  my  side  and  I 
fancied  I  could  hear  her  heart  beating.  I 
said  to  her  quickly :  "  If  he  has,  will  you  ?  " 

And  she  answered :    "  I  will,  if  he  has." 

The  next  minute  the  somewhat  muffled 
tones  of  Mr.  Dane  came  through  the  trum- 
pet to  us — and  by  us,  I  mean  all  the  passen- 
gers who  could  crowd  around.  He  said: 
"  I  opened  the  book  in  a  pretty  stiff  breeze — 
do  you  hear  ?  " 


An  Eastern  Easter         129 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  shouted,  in  an  agony  of  ex- 
pectancy; "  goon." 

"  I  opened  the  book  in  a  gale  of  wind,"  he 
repeated.  Dane  always  was  a  great  hand 
to  repeat  unnecessarily.  "  And  a  bill  blew 
away  to  sea." 

Miss  Delplain's  hand  sought  mine  and 
squeezed  it  sympathetically.  Just  then  Dane 
was  seized  with  a  fit  of  sneezing,  and  he  had 
to  interrupt  his  narrative.  It  seemed  an  age 
before  he  ceased  his  vocal  spasms.  At  last 
he  went  on. 

"  I  shut  the  book  up,  then  went  into  my 
cabin,  and  found  nine  other  bills  of  a  thou- 
sand each.  Are  they  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  shouted. 

"  Have  you  much  of  a  library  ?  "  said  he. 

"  That  was  the  only  book  of  the  kind." 

Then  he  wanted  to  know  how  I  came  to  be 
on  board  the  Milldam,  and  how  the  money 
came  to  be  in  the  book.  I  explained  every- 
thing to  him,  and  asked  the  captain  whether 
I  could  go  after  my  fortune  or  whether  he 


130        An  Eastern  Easter 

could  send  a  sailor.  I  was  rather  relieved 
when  he  detailed  a  sailor  to  straddle  one  of 
the  hawsers  and  go  after  the  money;  and  I 
was  so  afraid  that  he  would  fall  overboard 
on  the  way  back.  They  never  could  have  re- 
covered him;  and  he  was  so  valuable.  But 
he  made  the  return  trip  in  safety  and 
handed  me  a  neat  package.  My  eyes  met 
those  of  Miss  Delplain,  and  I  knew  that 
my  ocean  trip  was  going  to  be  good  for 
me. 

I  opened  the  package  while  my  friends 
crowded  around  me,  and  there  were  the  nine 
bills.  I  could  not  blame  Dane  for  the  loss 
of  the  tenth;  but  I've  often  wondered  since 
whether  it  washed  ashore  at  any  of  the 
beaches.  What  a  beautiful  little  romance  a 
man  could  make  out  of  it ! 

But  my  own  romance  was  good  enough 
for  me  for  the  present.  I  asked  Mrs.  Del- 
plain's  consent  that  evening,  and  in  the 
course  of  conversation  it  turned  out  that  she 
had  been  a  schoolmate  of  my  mother,  so,  of 


An  Eastern  Easter        131 

course,  she  had  not  the  slightest  objection  to 
my  marrying  Dorothy. 

While  I  was  talking  to  her  a  brilliant 
thought  came  into  my  head,  induced  by 
what  struck  me  as  a  curious  coincidence. 
We  had  been  at  sea  just  a  week,  and  it  was 
the  day  before  Easter. 

"  Would  it  not  be  a  happy  augury  for  the 
success  of  my  book,  Mrs.  Delplain  ? " — 
somehow  I  could  talk  to  the  mother  without 
getting  all  tied  up — "  would  it  not  be  a 
happy  augury  for  the  success  of  my  *  East- 
ern Easter '  if  we  were  married  on  Easter 
Day?" 

Mrs.  Delplain,  who  is  a  Baptist  and  not  up 
in  the  Episcopal  time-table,  said  she  thought 
it  would;  and  then  the  bugle  sounded  for 
dinner,  and  as  she  had  her  sea  appetite  on, 
she  went  down  without  saying  anything 
further. 

As  for  me,  having  obtained  her  consent, 
I  went  at  once  to  the  Rev.  Charles  W.  Op- 
dyke,  of  Philadelphia,  who,  as  luck  would 


132        An  Eastern  Easter 

have  it,  was  one  of  the  passengers;  and  I 
told  him  of  the  good  fortune  that  was  to  be 
mine,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  unite  us 
in  the  bonds  on  Easter  Day.  He  said  that, 
with  the  captain's  consent,  nothing  would 
give  him  greater  pleasure.  He  also  said  that 
it  was  a  little  unusual  to  be  married  on  Sun- 
day, but  that  he  did  not  see  any  objection  to 
it.  "'The  better  the  day,  the  better  the 
deed/  when  a  deed  is  so  good  as  this,"  said 
he.  Then  I  went  to  nail  the  captain. 

"  Why,  most  surely,"  said  he.  "  I  will 
have  the  cook  make  a  Wilhelmina  cake 
in  honor  of  the  occasion.  Such  an 
uncle!" 

It  seemed  hard  for  him  to  get  over  my 
uncle. 

Then  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  I 
had  not  told  Dorothy  about  the  date.  It 
would  be  awkward  if  she  learnt  it  from 
another  passenger. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  mother  in  the 
ladies'  saloon.  "  Dorothy,"  said  I,  "  let  me 


An  Eastern  Easter         133 

congratulate  you.  You  are  to  be  married 
next  Sunday." 

Several  passengers  looked  up  in  astonish- 
ment, and  Dorothy  blushed  'a  delightful 
shade  of  red.  But,  before  she  could  speak, 
her  mother  said:  "  Next  Sunday?  Why, 
you  told  me  that  you  wanted  to  marry  her 
on  Easter  Sunday." 

Dear  Baptist  woman,  she  had  supposed 
dimly  that  Easter  came  some  time  in  the  fall. 
But  she  was  true-blue.  I  told  her  that  I  did 
not  believe  in  long  engagements,  and  that  if 
we  waited  for  Easter  to  fall  in  the  autumn, 
we'd  both  pass  away  unwedded,  and  then 
she  said:  "It's  all  the  same.  If  you  are 
to  be  my  son-in-law,  the  sooner  the 
better." 

Do  you  know  that  then  for  the  first  time  I 
realized  that  she  would  be  my  mother-in-law, 
and  it  gave  me  a  bit  of  a  shiver,  but  only  be- 
cause the  professional  jokers  have  said  so 
much  on  the  subject.  I  really  had  no  cause 
for  worry,  and  I  leant  over,  and  was  just 


134        An  Eastern  Easter 

going  to  kiss  her  when  I  remembered  the 
other  passengers,  and  I  didn't  do  it. 

I  tried  to  get  Dane  to  be  my  best  man,  but 
he  is  light-headed,  and  said  that  he  wouldn't 
come  over  the  hawser  for  a  whole  book  full 
of  bank  bills ;  but  he  wished  me  every  sort  of 
joy.  I  had  sent  him  a  note  explaining  what 
was  going  to  happen. 

But,  as  it  turned  out,  he  was  best  man — 
at  a  distance — after  all.  Easter  morning 
dawned,  beautiful  and  springlike.  We  were 
married  in  the  stern  of  the  vessel — really  on 
the  steerage  deck,  under  an  awning,  for  no 
reason  in  the  world  but  that  Dane  could  be 
near  us  and  act  as  best  man  from  the  bow 
of  the  Humbug  liner. 

I  hadn't  seen  Dorothy  look  so  beautiful 
since  we  left  Hoboken — never,  in  fact.  She 
was  dressed  in  some  kind  of  gray  cloth  frock, 
and  I  had  borrowed  a  coat,  also  a  frock, 
from  a  man  not  much  bigger  than  I,  and 
I  wore  a  collar  that  Master  Eddy  Hoch,  of 
Cincinnati,  lent  me.  It  was  decidedly  the 


An  Eastern  Easter         135 

best  fit  of  any  I  had  tried  on  since  my  own 
became  undesirable. 

I  gave  Dorothy  one  of  the  bills  as  a  wed- 
ding present,  and  I  think  that  that  added  to 
her  happiness.  I  feel  that  I  can  say  this 
without  detracting  from  my  own  merits. 
She  felt  more  comfortable  coming  to  me  not 
entirely  dowerless. 

It  was  the  event  of  the  voyage  as  far  as 
the  rest  of  the  passengers  were  concerned — 
and,  in  fact,  as  far  as  we  ourselves  were  con- 
cerned. 

When  we  debarked  at  Boulogne,  Dane 
and  Mrs.  Delplain  accompanied  us  on  a  short 
wedding  trip  to  Paris. 

Uncle  Bob  had  evidently  surmised  that  I 
had  been  carried  off,  for  when  Dane  went  to 
his  banker's  there  was  a  cable  for  me  that 
caused  Mrs.  McPherson  and  her  husband 
unalloyed  joy.  It  ran  as  follows: 

"  Book  going  like  hot  cakes.  Hope  you 
found  the  book-marks." 


The  Man  in  the  Red 
Sweater 


interesting  talker  is  that  man 
JL  who,  having  something  to  say,  says 
it  without  stopping  to  verify  his  statements, 
and  to  whom  the  day  of  the  week  on  which 
a  thing  happened,  the  exact  name  of  the 
man  who  did  it,  and  the  geography  of  the 
land  in  which  it  was  done,  are  as  nothing. 

Such  a  man  was  among  the  passengers 
on  the  ocean  voyage  of  which  I  have  made 
mention,  and  there  were  few  minutes  during 
the  day  that  he  did  not  have  an  interested 
group  of  auditors  around  him.  That  all  his 
statements  were  mathematically  correct,  I 
will  not  swear,  but  on  an  ocean  voyage  who 
cares  ? 

The  guileless  blue  eyes  of  this  ready  talker 
added  a  piquancy  to  his  remarks  when  they 

I36 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  137 

seemed  to  savor  of  exaggeration.  Before  I 
heard  him  talk,  J  took  him  to  be  a  minister 
of  the  gospel  merely  on  account  of  those 
eyes ;  but  after  he  spoke  I  no  longer  thought 
so,  as  his  language  was  sometimes  racy,  and 
he  did  not  hesitate  to  use  the  word  that  was 
at  tongue,  merely  because  it  could  not  trace 
a  pedigree  through  five  or  six  diction- 
aries. 

There  was  not  a  soul  on  board  who  knew 
what  his  name  was.  He  said  he'd  tell  if  any- 
one guessed,  but  no  one  did  so,  and  there  was 
no  name  on  the  passenger  list  that  corre- 
sponded with  the  number  of  his  stateroom. 
He  went  by  the  name  of  "  Red  Sweater  " 
behind  his  back,  and  "  You  "  to  his  face. 
He  wore  a  red  sweater,  I  was  going  to  say, 
day  and  night — certainly  all  of  every  day — 
and  white  canvas  shoes. 

Speech  in  New  York  is  permeated  by  that 
awful,  tough  accent  that  even  before  the 
days  of  "  Chimmie  Fadden  "  had  begun  to 
make  permanent  impressions  on  the  imita- 


138  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

tive  minds  of  our  youth,  and  I  have  heard 
literary  men,  whose  subject-matter  was  of 
the  best,  use  the  whining  tone  with  the  aspi- 
rate at  the  end  of  most  of  their  words.  But 
slangy  as  "  Red  Sweater  "  was,  his  enuncia- 
tion was  as  cultivated  and  as  clean-cut  as 
that  of  Edwin  Booth  himself,  that  shining 
exemplar  of  perfect  speech. 

The  first  day  out,  when  I  went  down  to 
dinner,  "  Red  Sweater  "  was  talking  to  a 
man  from  Boston,  and  as  I  glanced  at  him 
I  wondered  that  a  minister  would  appear  in 
so  unconventional  a  garb.  But  when,  in  a 
beautifully  modulated  voice,  he  said  to  the 
Massachusetts  man,  "  No,  sir,  there  are  no 
long-distance  authors  to-day,"  I  decided  he 
was  not  of  the  cloth. 

The  Bostonian,  a  somewhat  vinegary 
man,  with  a  thin  bluish  nose  and  eyes  un- 
pleasantly contiguous,  looked  shocked  at  the 
flippant  words,  but  "  Red  Sweater  "  went  on 
unabashed : 

"  We  have  a  number  of  pen  trailers  who 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  139 

can  do  their  little  hundred-yard  dashes,  but 
when  it  comes  to  six-day  contests  we  are  not 
in  it  with  the  old-fashioned  push  like  Charley 
Dick  and  Willie  Thack." 

The  Bostonian  gasped  for  breath,  but  the 
man  with  the  honest  blue  eyes  helped  him- 
self to  some  celery  and  patted  his  left  hand 
with  it  to  emphasize  his  remarks,  and  went 
on  talking. 

"  Mind  you,  I'm  not  standing  up  at  all  for 
the  mountains  of  chapters  that  the  old- 
timers  found  in  the  depths  of  their  ink  wells. 
I  remember  once  saying  to  Louis  Stevenson, 
on  one  of  these  very  boats — it  was  when  he 
was  coming  over  the  second  time,  and  he  had 
been  outlining  the  plot  of  *  The  Master  of 
Ballantrae '  to  me.  I  said,  *  Louis,  don't 
make  the  mistake  of  building  a  three-vol- 
ume novel  out  of  a  one-volume  heap  of 
material.'  And  he  said  he  wouldn't.  But 
then  he  was  economical  in  the  matter  of 
words.  One  of  his  was  worth  three  of  the 
ordinary  variety.  He  didn't  fasten  his  hooks 


140  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

on  the  first  word  that  happened  to  come 
tumbling  out  of  his  mind.  He  hunted 
around  there  until  he  struck  one  that  was 
just  the  right  size  and  shape,  and  then  he 
slapped  it  into  place,  and  used  a  little  of  the 
mortar  of  felicity  to  make  it  stick,  and  there 
he  was.  If  Scott  could  have  taken  lessons 
from  Stevenson  on  the  destruction  of  useless 
words,  the  Waverley  novels  would  pack  into 
a  smaller  box,  and  Scott  would  push  Louis 
very  hard  with  the  young  people  of  to-day. 
Walter  used  to  go  to  a  pile  of  words,  and 
he'd  reach  up  to  get  a  handful  and  a  whole 
hodful  would  tumble  on  him.  It  didn't  make 
any  difference  to  him ;  he'd  use  them  all  and 
more  until  you  couldn't  see  the  plot  for  the 
verbiage." 

'At  this  point  the  man  from  Boston  mur- 
mured something  inarticulately  and  left  the 
table,  but  the  man  in  the  unconventional 
dress  turned  his  attention  to  me  and  went  on 
blithely,  and  I  was  only  too  glad  to  hear  him 
talk. 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  141 

"  What  else  did  you  say  to  Stevenson?  " 
I  asked  with  sincere  interest. 

"  Why,"  said  my  friend  simply,  "  I  said, 
'  Louis,  if  Charley  was  alive  to-day,  he'd  bite 
out  one  quarter  of  "  David  Copperfield." 
Same  way  with  Charley  Reade  and  the 
"  Cloister  and  the  Hearth."  They'd  have  to 
gain  the  attention  of  a  public  that  thinks  it's 
getting  a  new  masterpiece  hot  from  the  bat 
every  thirteen  minutes,  and  they'd  have  to 
strip  to  their  breech  clouts  to  do  it.  Why, 
even  Thackeray  didn't  need  all  the  words  he 
used  in  "  Vanity  Fair."  '  " 

"Did  you  ever  meet  Kipling?"  I  asked 
somewhat  irrelevantly.  I  wondered  whether 
he  would  think  that  the  Indian  author  was 
an  economist  in  words,  but  he  went  off  on  a 
new  topic  as  soon  as  I  asked  the  question. 

"  Did  I  ever  meet  Kipling?  Well,  I  only 
spent  one  summer  on  Kipling's  place.  I  was 
shoving  the  plane  that  year,  just  so  as  to 
keep  me  out  doors — I  learned  the  trick  at 
the  Boston '  Tech.,'  and  when  Rudyard  found 


142  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

out  that  I  was  fond  of  literature,  He  used  to 
come  out  to  the  barn  where  I  was  shingling, 
and  doing  other  odd  jobs,  and  he'd  perch 
himself  on  the  scaffolding  and  talk  to  me.  I 
told  him  one  day  that  he  wasn't  a  simon- 
pure  poet.  I  said,  *  Mr.  Kipling,  the  truth 
is,  that  when  Thackeray  died,  his  ballad 
mantle  was  hung  up  for  some  years,  and  then 
you  came  along  and  it  descended  on  you, 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  you  have  made 
a  better  garment  of  that  mantle.  You  can't 
do  the  sentimental  act  as  well  as  he  could, 
but  if  you  had  written  "  The  White  Squall  " 
it  wouldn't  have  been  full  of  bad  rhymes  and 
worse  rhythm,  and  even  you  would  have 
avoided  certain  coarse  lines  that  the  public 
of  to-day  won't  stand  for,  and  you'd  have 
eased  up  a  little  on  the  Jews,  which  he  didn't 
seem  to  be  able  to  do.  But  after  all  it  isn't 
first-chop  rhymes  and  dance-rhythms  that 
make  a  poet,  or  Gilbert  would  be  one  and 
you'd  be  another.  You  are  always  more 
than  a  rhymester  because  you're  dead  care- 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  143 

ful,  which  Thackeray  wasn't,  but  the  mantle 
of  poesy  is  too  big  for  your  frame,  and  I 
don't  think  you'll  grow  into  it  in  this  life. 
But  anyhow,  you're  warm  enough  without  it. 
You're  one  of  the  warmest  babies  in  the  in- 
cubator, Kipling,'  said  I." 

"And  what  did  Kipling  say?" 
"  Oh,  he  laughed  and  said  he  never  saw 
such  a  country  for  educated  mechanics.  But 
he  knew  I  was  right.  He'd  never  think  of 
putting  his  steppers  into  Tennyson's  shoes, 
even  to  walk  around  a  quatrain.  He  knows 
well  enough  when  he's  up  to  the  limit." 

I  do  not  know,  and  I  do  not  care,  whether 
my  friend  was  romancing  or  not.  He  had 
something  to  say  and  he  said  it  right  along. 
He  would  listen  if  anyone  else  spoke,  and  his 
eye  was  not  of  the  wandering  kind,  but  he 
was  so  much  happier  when  he  was  doing  the 
talking,  that  we  all  let  him;  all  but  the  Bos- 
tonian.  He  avoided  him  on  account  of  his 
slang  I  suppose,  although  slang  dropped  into 
the  current  of  his  speech  as  naturally  as 


144  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

apple  blossoms  fall  into  a  running  brook, 
and  decorated  it  just  as  much.  He  had  met 
everyone,  or  said  he  had,  and  the  stories  he 
told  of  the  Czar,  the  Mikado,  Whistler, 
Paul  Kriiger,  and  other  celebrities  were  al- 
ways peculiarly  fresh,  in  as  much  as  they 
were  original  with  him.  They  had  no  smell 
of  printer's  ink  on  them.  Whether  they 
were  true  or  not,  they  might  well  have  been. 
One  day  someone  was  talking  about  the  Eng- 
lish stage,  and  I  happened  to  say :  "  I  wish  I 
could  meet  Henry  Irving." 

"  Didn't  you  ever  meet  him?  "  said  "  Red 
Sweater,"  his  fathomless  blue  eyes  looking 
at  me  in  pity.  "  Now  there's  an  illustration 
of  what  I  was  saying  the  other  day  about 
great  men  always  being  versatile  men.  Ir- 
ving is  only  a  great  actor  because  he  hap- 
pened to  take  up  acting.  He'd  have  been  a 
great  preacher  or  a  great  drummer  if  he'd 
happened  to  go  in  for  those  particular  arts." 

His  eyes  took  on  a  reminiscential  haze. 

"  Why,  I  remember  once,  the  year  of  the 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  145 

great  blizzard,  the  train  on  which  we  were 
parting  the  air  from  Springfield  to  Albany, 
broke  down  at  an  out-of-the-way  village  in 
Massachusetts,  near  the  line,  and  lie  got  out 
to  walk  a  little,  after  the  fashion  of  an  Eng- 
lishman. It  would  be  two  hours  before  we 
could  go  on.  I'd  struck  up  an  acquaintance 
with  him  in  the  smoker,  and  I  accompanied 
him  on  his  stroll.  We  passed  a  little  gospel 
shack  after  we'd  been  moving  some  five 
minutes  and  an  anxious-looking  man  in  the 
door  called  out  as  we  came  up,  '  Are  you 
Mr.  Smorltork,  the  lecturer  ? '  I  saw  in  a 
minute  what  had  happened,  and  I  said  in  an 
undertone  to  Irving,  '  Tell  him  yes,  and  go 
in  and  give  'em  a  lecture.'  Irving  is  one  of 
the  most  playful  fellows  in  the  world,  and  he 
fell  in  with  the  idea  at  once.  I  suppose  he 
saw  a  chance  for  once  in  his  life  to  do  a  little 
stunt  without  having  all  the  world  know  that 
it  was  he,  Sir  Henry  Irving,  who  was  doing 
it.  You  see,  when  one  has  a  reputation  like 
his  to  jolly  along  it  gets  to  be  a  bit  of  a 


146  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

strain  on  one's  mind  after  a  while  to  know 
just  how  to  do  it.  It  sort  of  keeps  you 
guessing  all  the  time.  There  are  moments 
when  you'd  like  to  be  just  your  fool-self, 
but  the  world  won't  let  you.  Here  at  last 
was  Henry's  heaven-sent  opportunity,  and 
he  rose  to  the  mark  like  a  man.  We  went 
in  together  and  found  a  typical  country  au- 
dience, wide-eyed  and  solemn,  waiting  for 
Leonidas  Smorltork,  or  some  such  name  as 
that,  to  come  and  tell  them  what  he  knew 
about  Charlotte  Corday. 

"  Well,  I  walked  up  with  plenty  of  assur- 
ance, and  said,  '  I  have  great  pleasure  in 
introducing  to  you  the  famous  lecturer 
Leonidas  Smorltork,  who  will  fascinate  you 
with  his  remarks  on  the  career  of  the  la- 
mented Charlotte  Corday/  And  that  is  just 
what  Irving  did.  He  began  with  her  youth, 
and  he  made  up  some  pathetic  anecdotes 
about  her  happy  childhood  at  Auteuil,  and 
then  he  told  about  her  feeling  called  upon  to 
lead  the  French  armies  to  victory,  and  how 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  147 

Lamartine  and  Robespierre  tried  to  dis- 
suade her,  but  she  was  adamant,  and  how  at 
last  she  found  herself  storming  the  Bastile, 
and  how  freedom  shrieked  when  Charlotte 
Corday  fell  and  Marat  never  smiled  again. 
I  tell  you  I  was  glad  I  had  come  and  the  little 
audience  was  spellbound. 

"  The  treasurer  wanted  to  hand  '  Mr. 
Smorltork  '  a  check,  but  Irving  said,  with  a 
Louis  XL  air,  '  Mail  it  to  me  address/  and 
then  we  went  back  to  the  train.  He  didn't 
mix  history  up  any  more  than  some  expert 
historiographers  do,  and  he  didn't  claim  to  be 
an  expert.  He  brought  sunshine  into  a  little 
village,  and  if  his  facts  didn't  tally  with 
French  history,  ho  one  there  was  ever  the 
wiser.  Truth  is  mighty  and  will  prevail,  but 
while  it's  getting  ready  to  prevail,  let  us  have 
a  little  of  the  other  thing  to  brighten  us  up. 
I've  always  thought  that  if  old  man  Mun- 
chausen  had  gone  to  the  trouble  of  verifying 
all  his  statements,  his  stories  would  have 
lost  spontaneity,  and  he  wouldn't  have  had 


148  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

time  to  write  more  than  the  first  one.  Bill 
Nye  once  said  to  me,  r  Truth,  sir,  is  a  very 
valuable  thing,  and  the  less  truth  there  is, 
the  more  valuable  it  becomes.  If  everybody 
spoke  the  truth  all  the  time  it  would  be  like 
Confederate  money — of  no  use  except  to  an- 
tiquarians/ '  Here  he  paused  and  corrected 
himself  for  the  first  and  only  time.  "  I  was 
mistaken,"  said  he,  "  it  wasn't  Bill  Nye,  but 
Mark  Twain,  who  told  me  that." 

Here  someone  said :  "  Does  it  make 
any  difference  who  says  a  thing  if  it's 
good?" 

"  Red  Sweater  "  looked  compassionately 
at  his  questioner  and  said,  "  You  can  wager 
your  saccharine  existence  it  does.  If  James 
McNeill  Whistler  says  a  good  thing  once,  it 
is  accepted  at  its  full  value,  but  little  Tommy 
Incog  might  say  it  until  he  was  blue  in  the 
face  and  it  wouldn't  be  worth  shucks  unless 
someone  happened  to  hear  it  who  was  not 
prejudiced  by  a  name  or  lack  of  a  name.  If 
Felicia  Hemans  had  written  '  The  Heathen 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  149 

Chinee/  lots  of  good  souls  would  have 
found  it  full  of  religious  sentiment,  and  if 
Bret  Harte  had  written  '  Onward,  Christian 
Soldiers '  there  would  have  been  crowds  of 
people  hunting  for  the  joke,  and  finding  it, 
too.  You  can  pile  your  fortune  on  the  fact 
that  names  color  statements."  And  then  the 
dinner  bugle  blew  and  the  conversation,  or 
monologue,  ended. 

We  touched  at  France  at  dusk  of  a  humid 
summer's  day,  and  there  many  went  to 
Boulogne  on  the  tender.  There  was  also  one 
who  came  to  the  steamer  from  the  tender. 
He  was  an  American,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
looking  for  a  friend.  In  the  course  of  his 
search  his  eye  fell  on  "  Red  Sweater,"  who 
was  entertaining  some  of  us  with  a  story  of 
how  General  Boulanger  once  gave  him  a  lift 
on  the  highway  running  to  Chartres.  The 
newcomer  stopped  over  to  the  raconteur, 
whispered  one  or  two  words  in  his  ear,  and 
stepped  back  a  pace.  "  Red  Sweater's  "  color 
heightened,  and  his  blue  eyes  glistened  just 


150  The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater 

a  trifle,  but  he  finished  his  story,  and  then 
said: 

"  Well,  boys,  my  plans  have  been  suddenly 
changed,  and  instead  of  going  to  Rotterdam 
I'm  going  ashore  here  with  my  friend. 
Good-by  and  good  luck." 

Then  he  and  the  stranger  hurried  off,  and 
in  a  short  time  "  Red  Sweater's  "  baggage, 
which  consisted  of  a  small  steamer  trunk  and 
a  hand  bag,  was  put  on  the  tender,  and  he 
and  his  friend  went  away  in  the  mist  that 
lay  over  the  Channel. 

It  was  kept  pretty  quiet,  but  the  Captain 
told  me  that  "  Red  Sweater "  was  wanted 
for  some  little  irregularity  committed  in 
New  York,  and  that  a  prison  yawned  for 
him,  undoubtedly.  He  also  told  me  his 
name,  and  it  was  not  "  Red  Sweater." 

Well,  my  blue-eyed  friend,  my  good 
wishes  go  with  you  wherever  you  are.  If 
your  love  of  truth  has  taught  you  to  be 
sparing  of  it,  and  you  are  now  suffering  the 
consequences,  I  hope  that  they  have  not 


The  Man  in  the  Red  Sweater  151 

doomed  you  to  solitary  confinement,  for  that 
would  be  too  hard  on  the  other  prisoners. 
Here's  hoping  that  they  make  you  editor  of 
the  prison  paper,  and  put  me  on  the  exchange 
list. 


Little  Miss  Flutterly's  Disser- 
tation on  War 

SHE  was  just  as  pretty  as  she  knew  how 
to  be,  and  she  didn't  have  to  help  nature 
much.  Day  after  day  I  had  seen  her  talk- 
ing to  the  young  men  on  the  steamer,  but 
I  did  not  come  under  the  spell  of  her  tongue 
until  the  evening  before  we  landed  at  New 
York. 

She  was  about  seventeen,  with  a  voice 
wonderfully  sweet,  and  almost  Southern  in 
its  softness.  I  had  long  desired  to  meet  her, 
because  I  like  to  hear  a  pretty  woman  talk. 
The  army  chaplain  introduced  me  to  her. 
They  had  evidently  been  talking  about  war, 
for  as  I  sat  down  and  the  chaplain  went  be- 
low for  a  smoke,  she  said : 

"  When  do  you  suppose  the  Boer  war  will 
end?" 

Before  I  could  reply  she  went  on,  swiftly 

152 


Miss  Flutterly's  Dissertation    153 

and  softly  and  irresistibly :  "  Don't  you  think 
wars  are  cruel?  I'd  hate  to  see  a  French 
war,  because  the  French  must  be  awfully 
cruel,  judging  by  their  cabmen.  My!  their 
horses  did  look  so  tired  out.  So  different 
from  the  horses  in  Amsterdam  and  The 
Hague.  Didn't  you  love  Holland?  So 
awfully  neat.  The  vegetables  were  piled  up 
so  prettily  on  the  carts.  That  reminds  me 
that  I  saw  in  the  paper  the  other  day  that 
sweet  potatoes  are  unknown  in  England. 
Just  fancy!  Well,  they're  only  just  begin- 
ning to  use  ice,  they're  so  conservative. 
You  know,  they  think  it's  bad  for  the  stom- 
ach. I  heard  pa  say  that  he  thought  gin 
was  much  worse.  It  must  be  awful  stuff, 
almost  as  bad  as  absinthe.  I  never  tasted 
absinthe,  but  in  Paris  my  brother  Tom 
wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like,  and  he  had 
to  be  brought  home,  although  there  isn't  any 
word  for  home  in  French.  I  wonder  how 
they  can  sing  '  Home,  Sweet  Home/  But 
did  you  know  that  we  haven't  any  word  for 


154   Miss  Flutterly's  Dissertation 

country?  You  know,  the  French  say  patrie, 
but  we  can  only  say  '  country/  and  of  course 
that  might  mean  the  place  where  you  go  on 
your  vacation. 

"  Oh,  dear  me  hum,  my  vacation's  almost 
over,  and  I  have  had  the  loveliest  time.  I'll 
have  to  begin  school  the  week  after  we  land. 
I  tell  mother  I've  learned  more  about  for- 
eign countries  than  all  the  arithmetics  and 
grammars  in  the  world  could  teach  me. 
What  country  did  you  like  best  ?  I  thought 
that  Belgium  was  next  to  Holland.  I  don't 
mean  geographically,  of  course  I  know  that ; 
but  it  was  neater  there  than  in  Paris.  But 
Holland  was  the  neatest.  I'll  never  forget 
the  vegetables  piled  up  on  the  carts.  But  in 
Holland  I  saw  a  mother  smoking — a  lady, 
too.  Don't  you  think  it  is  shocking  for  a 
mother  to  smoke?  Like  as  not  when  her 
sons  grow  up  they'll  take  to  smoking,  too. 
I  think  it's  kind  of  fun,  don't  you  know, 
but  awfully  improper.  But  aren't  the 
French  improper?  I  wanted  to  go  to  some 


Miss  Flutterly's  Dissertation    155 

of  those  queer  places,  but  ma  said  it  would 
never  do:  that  we  might  meet  somebody 
there  that  we  knew.  You  know,  we  were 
always  meeting  somebody  that  we  knew. 
Why,  it  seemed  as  if  you  couldn't  go  to 
any  large  city  without  seeing  Americans. 
Awfully  nice  to  meet  Americans,  I  think. 
There  aren't  any  people  as  bright  as  Ameri- 
cans. Don't  you  think  so?  And  what  is 
your  candid  opinion  of  German  girls  ?  Don't 
you  think  our  girls  are  prettier?  And  the 
Dutch.  They  aren't  pretty,  but  they  are  so 
neat.  It  seems  a  pity  that  the  Dutch  and 
the  English  should  be  fighting,  for  the  Dutch 
are  so  neat,  and  the  English  are  our  cousins, 
and  blood  is  thicker  than  water.  But  wasn't 
the  water  awful  in  Holland  ?  I  had  to  drink 
mineral  water  all  the  time.  I  think  they 
must  use  all  their  best  water  to  keep  the 
streets  clean.  Paris  seemed  dirty  after  Hol- 
land, and  then  the  French  horses  did  look 
so  thin  and  abused.  So  did  the  Belgians'.  I 
think  they  must  have  French  blood.  They 


156   Miss  Flutterly's  Dissertation 

are  so  cruel,  those  French.  But  the  women 
certainly  are  stylish.  Only  I  can't  say  as 
much  for  the  men.  Their  bushy,  long  hair, 
and  their  baggy  trousers,  and  their  ridicu- 
lous hats,  and  the  girls  with  bloomers  on 
wheels !  Oh,  I  think  they  were  anything  but 
stylish.  The  English  never  wear  bloomers. 
I  will  say  that  Tor  them,  although  I'm  no 
Anglomaniac.  But  I  did  like  London.  Aw- 
fully dirty,  but  awfully  fascinating.  If  Eng- 
land were  as  clean  as  Holland  I  think  I'd 
like  it  better  than  Holland,  because  you  can 
understand  the  language;  but  they  don't 
make  any  attempt  with  their  vegetables,  and 
they  don't  use  sweet  potatoes;  but  they 
certainly  are  great  fighters,  only  I  think  it 
is  a  pity  that  the  poor  little  Dut — oh,  here 
comes  Miss  Standish.  I  promised  to  play 
shovel-board  with  her,  so  I  must  go.  I've 
been  awfully  pleased  to  talk  about  the  war 
with  you — and  the  trip.  Awfully  jolly  to 
travel,  don't  you  think  ?  It  makes  one  keep 
one's  eyes  open.  Hello,  you  dear  thing!  I 


Miss  Flutterly's  Dissertation    157 

know  you'll  beat  me  all  to  pieces.  [To  me] 
I  really  think  that  conversation  is  more  in- 
tellectual than  games.  You  must  tell  me 
some  more  about  that  horrid  war  to-mor- 


row."- 


The  Expatriation  of  Jonathan 
Taintor 

WHILE  I  was  in  London  I  met  a  New 
York  friend  who  was  stopping  in 
that  America-in-London,  Bloomsbury,  and 
during  our  conversation  he  told  me  that  he 
had  for  a  fellow-boarder  no  less  a  person 
than  Jonathan  Taintor. 

I  felt  that  I  ought  to  know  Jonathan 
Taintor,  and  I  have  since  found  out  that 
most  people  have  heard  something  concern- 
ing him;  but  although  the  name  had  a  good 
old  Connecticut  sound,  I  could  not  fit  Mr. 
Taintor  into  any  nook,  so  I  frankly  said  to 
my  friend:  "Jonathan  Taintor  lies  in  the 
future  for  me." 

"  Why,  I'll  have  to  introduce  you.  I  be- 
lieve he's  been  written  up  before,  but  he's 
such  a  character  that  it  will  do  you  good  to 

158 


JONATHAN  TAINTOR.— P.  159- 


Jonathan  Taintor          159 

meet  him.  Can't  you  come  to  dinner  to- 
night?" 

Now,  I  had  been  reckoning  on  going  that 
evening  to  the  opera  at  Covent  Garden;  but 
characters  do  not  pop  around  every  corner, 
and,  besides,  I  had  not  seen  my  New  York 
friend  for  a  long  time,  so  I  accepted  his  cor- 
dial invitation. 

That  evening  at  seven  I  went  to  the 
American  boarding-house  in  Bedford  Place, 
just  off  High  Holborn,  and  was  soon  sitting 
at  dinner  with  my  friend. 

Directly  opposite  me  sat  a  man  who  might 
have  left  the  valley  of  the  Connecticut  five 
minutes  before.  There  are  Taintors  all 
about  the  Haddams  that  look  just  like  'him. 
He  was  short,  thick-set,  with  dreamy  blue 
eyes,  a  ruddy  face  that  betokened  a  correct 
life,  a  curved  nose,  broad,  straight,  shaven 
upper  lip,  and  a  straggling  silver  chin-beard. 

There  was  more  or  less  twang  in  the  tones 
of  everyone  at  the  table,  but  his  voice  had  a 
special  nasal  quality  that  seemed  to  bespeak 


160          Jonathan  Tain  tor 

a  lifetime  of  bucolic  Yankee  existence.  It 
was  really  so  pronounced  as  to  sound 
stagy. 

The  talk  at  dinner  was  desultory,  and  Mr. 
Taintor  said  little.  I  noticed  that  he  had  a 
dish  of  corned  beef  and  cabbage,  although 
the  piece  de  resistance  for  the  rest  of  us 
was  beef  with  a  Yorkshire  pudding.  He  left 
the  table  before  coffee  was  served,  but  not 
before  my  friend  had  asked  him  to  join  us 
later  on  the  balcony  for  a  smoke  and  chat. 

When  we  went  up  we  found  him  already 
on  the  balcony,  smoking  a  corn-cob  pipe  of 
American  manufacture.  My  friend  intro- 
duced us,  and  he  shook  my  hand  with  one 
downward  jerk.  How  often  have  I  felt  that 
pressure  in  the  rural  Districts  of  Connecti- 
cut! 

When  Mr.  Taintor  learned  that  I  had 
been  in  London  only  a  week  and  had  just 
come  from  Middletown,  his  face  lighted  up 
with  interest,  and  he  said : 

"  You  may  have  passed  my  wife  in  the 


Jonathan  Taintor          161 

street.  She  often  comes  to  town  market 
days." 

"  Oh,  then  she's  not  with  you/'  was  my 
somewhat  idiotic  reply. 

"  No,  she  aint;  an'  unless  the  good  Lord 
heaves  enough  sand  into  the  Atlantic  to 
make  the  walkin'  good,  she  won't  never  be 
with  me." 

"You  must  be  anxious  to  get  back? 
Been  over  here  some  weeks  ?""  said  I. 

"  A  matter  of  thirty  year,"  he  replied, 
and  sighed  prodigiously. 

"  Why,  you  must  be  quite  an  Englishman 
by  this  time." 

He  looked  troubled.  "  Dew  I  look  Eng- 
lish?" said  he. 

"No,  no,"  I  replied  comfortingly;  "you 
might  pass  for  Uncle  Sam." 

"  Well,  I  hope  I'll  never  pass  fer  anythin* 
wuss,"  said  he.  "  It's  jest  thirty  year  in 
November  sence  I  left  America,  an'  I've  be'n 
in  this  dreary  taown  ever  sence;  but  I  aint 
never  read  an  English  noospaper  nor  ridden 


1 62         Jonathan  Taintor 

in  an  English  omnibus  or  horse-car  or 
steam-car,  neither,  an'  I  try  to  eat  as  much 
as  possible  what  I  would  ef  I  was  at  home 
with  Cynthy.  An'  I'm  a  Republican  clean 
through." 

"  Well,  what's  keeping  you  here?  "  said  I. 

Mr.  Taintor  pressed  down  the  tobacco  in 
his  pipe  to  make  it  burn  better,  and  said :  "  I 
can't  stan'  the  trip.  Y'  see,  when  we  was 
married  we  thought  we'd  cross  the  ocean  on 
aour  weddin'  trip.  Father  hed  lef  me  com- 
for'ble,  an'  Cynthy  hed  be'n  dead-set  on 
crossin'  all  through  aour  courtship.  Fact  is, 
her  sister  Sairy  said  'at  'at  was  all  she  was 
marryin'  fer;  but  of  course  Sairy  was  a  great 
joker,  an'  I  knowed  better.  Well,  we  went 
daown  to  Noo  York  the  day  before  the 
steamer  sailed,  an'  we  put  up  at  a  hotel  there 
on  Broadway,  an'  durin'  the  evenin'  some 
women  got  talkin'  to  Cynthy,  an'  told  her 
haow  awful  sick  she  was  like  to  be  ef  she 
hedn't  never  be'n  on  the  ocean  before. 
Well,  it  frightened  her  so  that  she  backed 


Jonathan  Taintor          163 

plumb  aout  er  the  harness — said  she  guessed 
we'd  better  go  to  Saratogy  instead;  an*  the 
upshot  was  we  hed  aour  fust  an*  last  quar'l 
then.  I  told  her  I'd  bought  the  tickets  fer 
Europe  an*  we'd  hev  to  go,  an*  she  said  she 
wouldn'  expose  herself  to  two  or  three  weeks 
of  sickness  under  the  idee  it  was  a  picnic 
party,  an'  all  I  could  say  to  her  couldn't 
shake  her.  Well,  it  was  bad  enough  losin' 
the  price  of  one  ticket,  but  I  couldn't  lose 
the  price  of  two,  an'  so  we  finally  come  to  an 
agreement.  She  was  to  go  up  to  Saratogy, 
although  the  season  up  ther'  was  over,  an'  I 
was  to  cross  the  ocean  alone.  It  was  too 
late  to  git  my  money  back,  an',  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  allers  did  hate  to  give  a  plan  up, 
'thout  I  hed  sufficient  reason;  so  nex'  morn- 
in'  we  went  daown  to  the  dock,  fer  we'd 
made  up,  an'  she  was  comin*  ter  see  me  off. 
She  took  on  consid'able,  an'  I  was  cut  up 
myse'f,  partic'larly  when  I  thought  of  the 
ticket  thet  was  bein'  thrown  away.  But  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  waves  behind  a 


164          Jonathan  Taintor 

ferryboat,  an'  she  turned  white  as  a  sheet  an* 
shook  her  head;  so  I  kissed  her  good-by,  an* 
the  steamer  sailed  away  with  me  on  it,  an* 
her  a-wavin'  her  arms  an'  cryin'  on  the 
dock." 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  said  I  sympatheti- 
cally. 

"  Well,  the  amount  of  seasickness  she 
saved  herself  by  stay  in'  to  hum  couldn't  be 
reckoned  'thout  I  was  a  scholar,  which  I 
aint.  I  took  to  my  berth  before  we  was 
aout  of  sight  of  land,  an'  ef  the  brimstun  of 
the  future  is  any  wuss  'an  what  I  suffered, 
I  don't  want  to  die.  But  I  wished  I  could 
die  all  the  way  over.  I  come  right  here  to 
London,  because  there  was  a  man  I  knew 
comin'  here,  too,  an*  I  wrote  to  Cynthy  to 
come  right  over  as  soon  as  she  could,  an* 
we'd  live  aour  lives  aout  here;  fer  bad  as  it 
was  here,  nothin'  on  top  of  creation  could 
tempt  me  to  go  back,  not  even  her  pretty 
face." 

He  stopped  a  minute  and  half  closed  his 


Jonathan  Taintor  165 

eyes,  and  I  fancy  he  was  calling  her  pretty 
face  back  through  the  thirty  years. 

"Well,  well,  that  was  hard  lines," 
said  I. 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  wuss  when  I  got  her 
reply.  She  told  me  she  hedn't  hed  a  happy 
minute  sence  I  left,  although  she  hed  gone 
up  to  Saratogy,  but  the  water  tasted  like 
something  was  into  it,  an'  she'd  come  away 
after  one  day,  an'  was  now  on  the  farm  at 
Goodspeed's  Landing.  An'  she  said  thet  ef 
I'd  be'n  so  sick  she'd  probably  die,  an'  she 
couldn't  bear  to  think  of  bein'  heaved  into 
the  Atlantic,  an'  must  stop  where  she  was. 
Ah  me!  Sence  then  we've  be'n  as  lovin' 
as  we  could  be,  writin'  reg'lar  an'  remem- 
berin'  each  other's  birthdays  an'  aour  wed- 
din'  anniversaries;  but  we  haint  sot  eyes  on 
each  other,  an'  won't  until  we're  both  safe 
on  that  other  shore  they  tell  us  abaout.  An* 
I  hope  thet  trip  '11  be  a  smooth  one." 

"And  what  does  Mrs.  Taintor  do  all 
alone?" 


1 66          Jonathan  Taintor 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and 
put  it  into  his  pocket  before  he  replied : 

"  She  runs  the  old  farm  as  I  never  could 
have  run  it.  She's  a  born  farmer,  that  wife 
of  mine  is.  She  has  a  hired  man  to  help, 
but  she  does  a  good  share  of  the  work  her- 
self, an*  every  year  she  sen's  me  half  the 
airnings;  an'  I  live  on  here,  hatin'  it  all  an* 
hopin'  for  the  time  to  come  when  the  ocean 
'11  either  dry  up  or  freeze  over,  or  that  Cyn- 
thy  will  overcome  her  dislike  to  the  trip. 
Married  life  aint  e'zac'ly  pleasant  so  fur 
apart,  but  I  c'n  truthfully  say  we've  never 
quar'led  sence  I  come  here,  an'  I  aint  seen 
a  woman  sence  I  landed  thet  could  hold  a 
candle  to  Cynthy.  Cynthy  is  a  pretty  gal." 

Shortly  afterward  the  old  man  retired  to 
his  own  room,  and  then  my  friend,  who  had 
not  spoken  once  since  we  came  out,  wickedly 
hinted  that  maybe  Mr.  Taintor  only  imag- 
ined that  he  loved  Cynthia,  and  that  they 
were  happier  separated;  but  I  hate  to  spoil 
idyls  in  that  way.  To  me  it  is  very  beauti- 


"WE  HED    AOUR   FUST  AN'   LAST   QUAR'L."— P.    163. 


Jonathan  Taintor  167 

ful,  the  thought  of  that  dear  old  lady  in 
Connecticut,  who  runs  the  farm  and  writes 
loving  letters  to  her  expatriated  spouse  and 
sends  him  a  share  of  the  profits,  but  who 
cannot  overcome  her  antipathy  to  the  unsta- 
ble sea.  And  when  I  think  of  Mr.  Taintor 
as  he  appeared  that  evening  in  Bloomsbury, 
with  his  honest  Yankee  face,  and  his  loyalty 
to  Yankee  traditions,  and  his  ardent  love  for 
his  absent  wife,  I  say,  "  Hurrah  for  both  of 
them!" 


The  Memory  of  Carlotta 

WHAT  a  beautiful  thing  is  con- 
stancy; beautiful  in  a  woman, 
more  beautiful  in  a  man.  I  think  that  I 
never  saw  a  finer  exemplification  of  the 
divine  attribute  than  in  Apthorp  Polhemus, 
whom  I  met  at  the  Paris  Exposition  on  his 
second  wedding  trip. 

I  was  visiting  for  the  fourth  or  fifth  time 
the  American  art  exhibit  in  the  Grand  Palais 
des  Beaux  Arts,  and  was  proud  to  have  just 
heard  from  the  lips  of  a  passing  Frenchman 
that  with  the  exception  of  France  there  was 
no  nation  whose  exhibit  could  compare  with 
that  from  the  United  States.  While  I  was 
still  glowing  with  patriotic  fervor  a  woman 
entered  the  first  room  dragging  a  reluctant 
husband  after  her.  "  My,"  said  she  in  a 
high-keyed,  strident  voice,  "there  aint 
many  pictures  in  this  room,  are  there  ?  "  A 


Memory  of  Carlotta        169 

rapid  twist  of  the  head  and  room  number 
one  was  finished,  so  far  as  she  was  con- 
cerned, and  her  energetic  feet  carried  her 
into  the  next  room,  where  she  made  a 
similar  remark  and  hurried  her  poor,  tired 
husband  along.  But  happening  to  see 
Brown's  eternal  group  of  street  boys  with 
"  shining  morning  faces "  she  stopped  for 
nearly  thirty  seconds !  Sargent  had  not  ap- 
pealed to  her,  Inness  had  labored  in  vain, 
Whistler  had  plied  a  useless  brush;  but  she 
recognized  something  in  the  Brown  picture, 
and  gloated  just  as  long  as  she  had  time  to 
do  it.  "That's  elegant,"  she  said  to  her 
husband.  "  That  took  the  $5000  prize  at 
Chicago.  Come  along,  there's  three  rooms 
more;  "  and  her  husband,  ready  to  drop, 
and  with  no  eye  for  pictures,  even  $5000 
ones,  dragged  after  her  into  another  room. 

A  voice  at  my  side  said :  "  There  are 
many  people  who,  in  the  education  of  their 
color  sense,  never  get  beyond  Brown." 

I  chortled  appreciatively,  and  turned  to 


i  yo        Memory  of  Carlotta 

see  who  had  spoken.  It  was  Apthorp  Pol- 
hemus, as  I  afterward  learned — Apthorp 
Polhemus,  who,  on  his  second  wedding  trip, 
displayed  such  marked  constancy  to  his  first 
wife. 

Finding  that  in  art  matters  our  tastes 
were  similar,  we  struck  up  a  ready  acquaint- 
ance and  did  the  rest  of  the  rooms  together. 

"  Traveling  alone?  "  said  I. 
'  Yes — er — no,  no.  Mrs.  Polhemus  is 
along,  but  she  got  overtired  yesterday,  and 
stayed  at  the  hotel  this  morning.  It  seems 
strange  to  say  Mrs.  Polhemus,"  he  went  on, 
his  naturally  mournful  face  assuming  a  more 
mournful  cast.  "  She  is  Mrs.  Polhemus, 
but  not  the  Mrs.  Polhemus." 

I  looked  a  little  puzzled,  and  he  explained 
as  we  walked  through  the  galleries,  stopping 
here  and  there  as  we  were  attracted  By  the 
works  of  art. 

"  Ten  years  ago  (Isn't  that  a  characteris- 
tic Inness?)  I  married  my  first  wife,  Car- 
lotta, and  for  five  fleeting  years  we  were 


Memory  of  Carlotta         171 

happy  together.  We  came  over  here  for  a 
wedding  trip.  (Those  lips  are  just  the 
color  of  smoked  beef. )  We  came  over  here 
for  a  wedding  trip,  and  I  knew  then  what 
happiness  was.  (Childe  Hassam  knows  his 
Fifth  Avenue,  doesn't  he?)  Carlotta  was 
fond  of  music,  fond  of  paintings,  fond  of 
sight-seeing,  and  we  both  felt  that  Europe 
had  been  constructed  for  our  amusement.  I 
was  not  absent  from  her  for  a  moment,  and 
such  a  thing  as  a  harsh  word  was  unknown 
to  either  of  us.  (I  say,  isn't  that  a  poetic 
treatment  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge?  One  of 
Ranger's,  isn't  it?  He  understands  the 
poetry  of  the  commonplace.  I  wish  Carlotta 
could  have  seen  that.)" 

"  Excuse  me,  but  did  you  say  that  you  are 
married  again?"  I  asked. 

"Yes — oh,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Polhemus, 
making  a  cone  of  his  hand  through  which 
to  view  the  picture  that  had  taken  his  fancy. 
"  I  found  that  I  needed  to  talk  to  someone 
of  the  charms  of  dear  Carlotta,  and  Helen 


172        Memory  of  Carlotta 

was  very  sympathetic,  and  so  I  married  her. 
(Church  is  at  it  again.  It's  always  Beauty 
and  the  Beast  with  him.)  Then  I  had  the 
happy  thought  of  revisiting  the  scenes  made 
dear  to  me  by  Carlotta.  I  live  them  over 
again  (Now,  that's  my  idea  of  how  a  por- 
trait should  not  be  painted.  The  face  is 
only  an  accessory  to  the  fabrics),  and  al- 
though the  present  Mrs.  Polhemus  doesn't 
pretend  to  be  the  equal  of  Carlotta,  either 
in  mind  or  attractiveness,  yet  she  is  a  very 
comfortable  traveling  companion,  and  it 
adds  to  my  mournful  pleasure  to  tell  her  the 
delights  of  that  memorable  trip  ten  years 
ago.  ('The  Senator's  Birthplace.'  Isn't 
that  bleak?  It  was  on  just  such  a  bleak 
New  England  scene  that  I  met  Carlotta.)" 
We  passed  to  the  next  picture,  and  he  sud- 
denly stopped  talking,  and  became  lost  in 
thought  before  it.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a 
noble-looking  woman.  His  eyes  moistened 
and  I  turned  away,  not  wishing  to  spy  on 
his  emotion. 


Memory  of  Carlotta        173 

"  To  the  life— Carlotta  to  the  life." 
I  took  especial  notice  of  the  picture.  It 
was  that  of  a  woman  with  dark  hair  and 
regular  and  singularly  mobile  features,  old- 
fashioned  and  winsome.  I  thought  that  if 
Carlotta  looked  like  that,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  Mr.  Polhemus  had  loved  her.  But  I 
afterward  visited  many  a  gallery  with  the 
married  widower,  if  so  I  may  call  him,  and 
he  never  failed  to  spot  at  least  one  portrait 
or  ideal  head  that  was  the  painted  present- 
ment of  Carlotta,  and  the  various  pictures 
did  not  look  any  more  alike  than  the  numer- 
ous portraits  of  Napoleon.  One  of  them 
was  Rubens'  first  wife,  and  another  was  his 
second  wife,  both  fleshly  women,  miles  re- 
moved from  the  spiritual  face  that  he  had 
first  pointed  out  to  me.  Yes,  after  a  while, 
I  could  tell  intuitively  when  he  was  going  to 
stop  and  gaze  rapturously  at  a  picture,  and 
then  say,  in  low  tones :  "  To  the  life,  my 
Carlotta."  I  dare  say  that  he  found  a  rem- 
iniscence in  all  of  them ;  it  was  certainly  not 


174        Memory  of  Carlotta 

a  pose  of  his.  There  never  lived  a  more 
simple  man  that  Apthorp  Polhemus. 

That  morning  we  did  the  American  gal- 
leries pretty  thoroughly,  and  I  could  not  tell 
which  pleased  me  the  more,  his  just  and 
often  humorous  comments  on  the  pictures, 
or  his  revelation  of  constancy  to  a  departed 
companion,  as  evinced  in  his  yearning  and 
sympathetic  encomiums  on  Carlotta. 

At  last  we  parted  at  the  hideous  Porte 
Triumphale,  after  making  an  appointment 
to  meet  that  evening  at  Vieux  Paris  to  hear 
a  Colonne  concert. 

"  Carlotta  raved  over  Colonne,  and  I  want 
the  present  Mrs.  Polhemus  to  hear  the  man 
whose  orchestra  gave  us  such  happiness." 

Those  were  his  words  as  he  hailed  a 
voiture  and  was  driven  to  his  hotel. 

I  had  been  leaning  for  some  minutes  over 
the  ramparts  of  the  reproduction  of  Old 
Paris,  looking  at  the  feast  of  lights  that  be- 
sprinkled the  waters  of  the  Seine,  when  I 
saw  Mr.  Polhemus  approaching.  His  sad, 


Memory  of  Carlotta        175 

pale  face  looked  even  more  melancholy  in 
the  evening  light,  and  was  in  marked  con- 
trast to  the  pretty,  fresh,  pink-and-white 
features  of  the  lady  who  had  elected  to  be 
the  recipient  of  the  praises  of  "  Number 
One."  Her  voice  was  as  sweet  as  that  of  a 
Southern  woman,  and  I  regretted  for  the 
moment  that  there  had  been  a  Carlotta.  But 
in  the  end  my  admiration  for  the  constancy 
of  the  bereft  traveler  became  dominant. 

He  presented  me,  and  we  went  into  the 
hall  where  the  concert  was  to  be  given. 
Picturesque  damsels  in  little  caps  and  short 
dresses  came  to  us  and  performed  useless 
offices  for  which  they  demanded  "  benefices." 
I  handed  one  a  two-franc  piece  for  a  pro- 
gramme, and  she  retained  it,  murmuring 
"  Benefice  "  in  so  soft  a  voice  that  it  was  not 
until  the  music  had  begun  that  I  realized 
that  I  had  been  cheated.  I  wondered 
whether  Mr.  Polhemus  would  refer  to  Car- 
lotta in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Polhemus.  I 
was  not  long  kept  in  doubt.  The  first  num- 


176       Memory  of  Carlotta 

her  on  the  programme  was  the  Suite  Algeri- 
enne  of  Saint-Saens. 

"  M-m-m-m-m,"  said  Mr.  Polhemus,  as  if 
he  had  just  tasted  a  delicious  grape.  "  How 
delightful!  One  of  Carlotta's  favorites. 
My  dear  Helen,  I  wish  that  you  had  Car- 
lotta's musical  sense.  You  won't  like  this 
as  she  did." 

Mrs.  Polhemus  blushed  one  of  the  loveli- 
est colors  I  ever  saw  on  a  satin  skin.  "  No, 
but  I  hope  I'll  like  it  as  7  do.  I'm  very  fond 
of  Saint-Saens." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Polhemus, 
"  but  she  was  fond  of  him  with  a  musician's 
fondness.  Your  ears  like  him,  but  it  was 
her  immortal  soul  that  drank  him  in." 

I  was  satisfied.  Here  was  constancy  to 
beat  the  band,  as  the  vulgarians  say.  How 
easy  it  would  have  been  for  a  man  of  no 
convictions  to  assert  that  the  present  Mrs. 
Polhemus  loved  music  just  as  much  as  Car- 
lotta had  been  wont  to.  But  Mr.  Polhemus 
would  not  lay  perjury  to  his  soul. 


Memory  of  Carlotta        177 

When  the  music  again  began,  he  was 
silent,  and  again  his  eyes  moistened,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  first  movement  he  applauded 
with  tremendous  enthusiasm  and  said : 

"  I  wish  that  you  had  known  Carlotta,  my 
dear." 

"  I  wish  I  "had,"  said  Helen,  and  there 
was  a  world  of  meaning  in  her  simple  words. 
I  really  felt  sorry  for  Mrs.  Polhemus.  Not 
because  Mr.  Polhemus  was  constant  to  the 
memory  of  his  first  love,  but  because  she  had 
missed  the  position  herself.  In  my  humble 
opinion,  she  was  worthy  to  have  been  his 
first  choice.  And  yet  it  must  have  been  a 
sort  of  education  to  her  to  learn  what  a  cul- 
tured woman  like  Carlotta  had  thought  of 
this  temple  and  that  statue;  of  how  she  had 
reveled  in  a  tone  picture  at  the  Opera,  or 
been  ravished  by  a  feast  of  color  in  the 
Louvre.  Mr.  Polhemus  knew  just  what  to 
pick  out  for  her  delectation;  anything  that 
had  received  the  hallmark  of  Carlotta's  dis- 
criminating praise  was  meet  to  show  to  her 


178        Memory  of  Carlotta 

successor;  and,  as  Helen  herself  was  a 
woman  of  innate  refinement,  I  believe  that 
she  fully  appreciated  her  benefits,  although 
she  may  not  altogether  have  shared  his  love 
for  Carlotta. 

I  journeyed  with  them  for  nearly  a  week, 
as  we  were  a  congenial  trio,  and  I  never  saw 
Mrs.  Polhemus  in  any  mood  but  an  amiable 
one.  This  was  probably  because  Mr.  Pol- 
hemus himself  was  singularly  even-tem- 
pered. I  could  well  believe  that  he  and 
Carlotta  had  lived  in  amity. 

Once,  at  the  hotel  in  Brussels,  Mrs.  Pol- 
hemus said  that  she  did  not  care  for  a  cer- 
tain carrot  soup,  and  her  husband  was  over- 
come with  dejection. 

"  Why,  Helen,  I  am  sure  I  must  have  told 
you  that  Carlotta  used  to  make  this  kind  of 
soup  herself,  and  it  was  one  of  her  favorites 
to  the  last.  I  remember  she  said  she  was 
fond  of  carrots  for  three  reasons :  they  were 
so  opulent  in  color,  their  flavor  was  just  the 
thing  that  soup  needed,  and  their  long,  deli- 


Memory  of  Carlotta        179 

cately  tapering  form  reminded  her  of  her 
mother,  whom  I  never  saw.  You  should 
like  this  soup  for  Carlotta's  sake." 

Mrs.  Polhemus  smiled  a  strange  smile, 
but  she  did  not  attempt  to  finish  the  soup. 
However,  her  widowed  husband  did  not 
notice  it.  "  To-morrow,"  said  he,  "  we 
must  go  to  the  park.  Carlotta  always 
thought  the  vistas  more  beautiful  than  any 
in  Paris." 

And  so  he  was  all  the  time;  thoughtful 
of  the  comfort  of  Helen  and  ingeniously 
devising  means  by  which  she  could  be  made 
to  drink  at  the  fountains  which  Carlotta's 
fingers  had  blessed. 

At  Antwerp  I  was  to  leave  them,  and  I 
regretted  it  for  more  than  one  reason;  but 
I  was  not  going  to  do  Antwerp  until  after  I 
had  been  to  Holland.  Just  as  we  were  en- 
tering the  outskirts  of  the  city,  Mr.  Polhe- 
mus said  reminiscently : 

"  I  have  put  up  at  two  hotels  here  in 
Antwerp.  One  is  very  good,  and  the  other 


180        Memory  of  Carlotta 

is  atrocious.  In  my  student  days  I  stopped 
at  the  good  one,  but  when  I  came  with  Car- 
lotta  I  relied  on  the  advice  of  a  traveler,  and 
we  put  up  at  the  bad  one — that  is,  we  first 
put  up  at  it  and  then  had  to  put  up  with  it. 
It  was  the — er — well,  no  matter  now ;  I  have 
it  in  my  notebook.  We  passed  a  horrible 
night  there.  The  dinner  was  awful,  the  ser- 
vice worse,  the  beds  something  beyond  be- 
lief, and  the  ringing  every  few  minutes  of 
the  Cathedral  chimes  made  sleep  impossible, 
if  nothing  else  had  done  so.  But  Carlotta 
was  so  patient  under  it  all.  We  spent  the 
night  sitting  on  chairs  and  looking  out  on 
an  air-shaft — looking  for  air.  Every  few 
minutes  the  bells  seemed  to  be  trying  to  rec- 
ollect an  operatic  aria  that  they  had  only 
half  heard ;  and  then  at  the  quarters,  I  think 
it  was,  the  big  bell  Carolus  would  '  swallow 
up  the  universe  in  sound ' — that  was  Car- 
lotta's  poetic  phrase — and  while  its  sweet, 
resonant  tones  were  sounding,  we  felt  rec- 
onciled to  our  plight.  But  it  was  hot  and 


Memory  of  Carlotta        181 

humid,  and  the  hotel  was  old  and  unsavory. 
Altogether  it  was  one  of  the  most  painful 
recollections  of  my  married  life." 

"  Then,  of  course,  you'll  go  to  the  hotel 
you  stayed  at  when  you  were  a  student," 
said  Helen  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Mr.  Polhemus  looked  at  her  in  mild  sur- 
prise. "  Why,  no,  my  dear.  I  would  not 
miss  refreshing  my  memory  of  that  night 
for  worlds.  When  I  think  of  the  saintlike 
equanimity  of  dear  Carlotta,  I  love  her  more 
than  ever.  I  will,  if  possible,  get  the  same 
room,  and  you  shall  see  for  yourself  what 
Carlotta " 

It  has  been  remarked  by  some  judge  of 
human  nature  that  women  are  enigmas. 
Oh,  sapient  one!  They  are.  It  was  not 
much  that  Mr.  Polhemus  had  asked.  It 
would  be  a  mere  recollection  next  day.  As 
the  Psalmist  has  said,  joy  would  come  in 
the  morning,  but  Helen  forgot  the  Psalmist, 
forgot  what  she  owed  Mr.  Polhemus  and 
the  memory  of  Carlotta,  and  gave  him  an 


1 82        Memory  of  Carlotta 

angry  look  that  would  have  pierced  a  pachy- 
derm. 

I  was  only  too  glad  to  bid  them  good-by 
when,  a  minute  later,  we  stopped  at  Ant- 
werp and  they  left  the  railway  carriage.  I 
heard  her  tell  the  porter  the  name  of  the 
best  hotel  in  Antwerp,  so,  if  Mr.  Polhemus 
did  spend  the  night  on  a  sanctified  chair  lis- 
tening to  the  bells,  he  did  so  alone,  with 
nothing  but  the  memory  of  Carlotta  for  a 
companion. 

My  way  after  that  led  through  Holland, 
and  I  did  not  expect  to  see  any  more  of  the 
Polhemuses,  as  they  were  going  to  Dussel- 
dorf  from  Antwerp.  But  travelers  do  not 
always  hold  fast  to  their  itineraries,  and  a 
week  later,  in  The  Hague,  as  I  stood  in  front 
of  Paul  Potter's  Bull,  wondering  whether 
my  judgment  was  poor  or  Mr.  Potter  had 
been  too  highly  praised,  I  heard  a  familiar 
voice  behind  me — that  of  a  woman.  She 
said :  "  Why  in  the  world  is  the  man  pushed 
off  to  one  side  ?  He  looks  as  if  he'd  fall  out 


Memory  of  Carlotta        183 

of  the  frame.  I  think  he  must  have  been 
put  in  as  an  afterthought,  after  the  bull  was 
finished." 

I  could  feel  her  companion  wince. 
"  Don't,  my  dear.  You  are  positively  sacri- 
legious. That  is  the  most  celebrated  cattle 
picture  in  the  world,  and  Carlot " 

"  Mr.  Polhemus,  I  must  remind  you  once 
for  all  that  7  am  Mrs.  Polhemus  now,  and 
my  opinion  is  that  Troyon  would  have 
painted  that  bull  and  man  far  better." 

Let  those  who  will  gloat  over  Mr. 
Polhemus'  discomfiture.  I  could  not.  I 
escaped  unseen  into  the  crowd,  while  Mr. 
Polhemus,  who  had  harped  once  too  often 
on  the  merits  of  Carlotta,  laid  his  harp  aside 
until  he  should  need  it  in  a  duet. 


Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves 

r-pRUMAN  WICKWIRE  was  as  rich 
-I  as  he  was  mean,  and  if  you  had 
known  Truman  you  would  have  consid- 
ered him  wealthy  from  any  point  of  view. 
He  had  inherited  a  small  fortune,  and 
did  not  need  to  work,  but  still  kept  at 
his  trade  of  wheelwright.  He  lived  in  a 
little  hill  town  in  northeastern  Connecticut, 
and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  was  married. 
Whatever  luck  was  in  the  proposition  was 
on  his  side,  for  his  wife,  a  meek,  good-tem- 
pered little  woman,  led  a  dog's  life  through 
his  dictatorial  ways. 

One  day  he  could  not  find  his  gloves.  He 
was  going  to  a  funeral,  and  although  at  any 
other  time  gloves  would  have  been  an  ab- 
surdity, for  a  funeral  they  were  a  necessity. 

Mrs.    Wickwire    was    at    work    in    the 


Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves    185 

kitchen;  for  Truman  had  never  grown  rich 
enough  to  relieve  his  wife  of  the  smallest 
detail  of  housework,  and  she  slaved  for  his 
comfort,  as  she  had  any  time  these  twenty 
years. 

He  came  to  the  door  of  their  bedroom, 
which  opened  off  the  kitchen,  and,  in  his 
rough,  unpleasant  bass,  shouted: 

"  Sayrah,  where' s  my  gloves?" 

Mrs.  Wickwire  looked  up  despairingly. 
"  Why,  Truman,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know. 
Where'd  you  put  'em  when  you  last  had 
'em?  You  wore  'em  to  Zelia  Higgins' 
funeral,  didn't  ye?" 

"  Well,  as  I  wear  'em  to  every  funeral, 
an'  she  was  the  last  t'  die  hereabouts,  of 
course  I  did.  But  that  don't  tell  me  where 
they  are.  I  ask  you." 

"  Well,  really,  I  dunno,  Truman.  I'll  go 
look  for  'em."  She  was  mixing  dough 
when  she  spoke,  but  she  got  up  and  washed 
her  hands,  and  began  a  fruitless  hunt  of  a 
half-hour  without  protest.  Whether  she 


1 86   Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves 

ever  felt  like  protesting  or  not,  she  certainly 
never  uttered  a  complaint. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she  went  to 
him  in  the  barn,  where  he  was  harnessing 
the  old  sorrel.  "  Truman,  I  can't  find  them 
gloves." 

He  was  feeling  in  a  particularly  bad 
humor,  as  the  old  horse  had  just  trod  on  his 
foot,  and  he  glared  at  her  a  moment  with- 
out speaking.  A  faint  tinkle  of  the  butch- 
er's bell  came  up  the  road,  borne  on  the 
south  wind,  and  it  gave  him  a  malicious 
idea.  As  he  climbed  into  the  wagon  to  go 
to  the  funeral  without  his  gloves,  he 
said: 

"  Sayrah,  you  must  ha'  lost  those  gloves, 
an'  until  you  find  'em  you  can't  buy  any 
meat.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  What  '11  you  do?  "  was  her  answer. 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  me.  I  guess  I 
won't  be  meat-hungry  before  you  find  'em. 
Git  ap." 

He  cut  the  horse  viciously  with  his  whip, 


Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves    187 

and  started  north  a  minute  before  the 
butcher  drove  up  to  the  house. 

If  Mrs.  Wickwire  was  disappointed  at  not 
having  been  invited  by  her  husband  to  go 
to  the  funeral,  she  did  not  show  it.  She 
walked  slowly  out  to  the  butcher's  wagon. 
Although  as  lean  as  hard  work  could  make 
her,  she  was  very  fond  of  meat,  a  fact  of 
which  her  husband  was  well  aware. 
Through  force  of  habit  she  said  to  the 
butcher:  "  What  you  got?" 

The  butcher,  Darius  Hunt,  was  a  jovial 
man,  and  he  answered  her  with  his  time- 
honored  rigmarole  of  "  Ham,  ram,  lamb, 
beef,  an'  mutton." 

"  I  can't  buy  any  meat  to-day,"  she  said, 
in  her  mild  little  voice.  As  she  spoke,  she 
lifted  the  lid  that  covered  the  end  of  his 
wagon,  and  sniffed  hungrily  at  the  fresh 
meat. 

"  What's  matter  ?  Lost  pocket-book,  or 
is  it  gettin'  to  be  Lent,  or  what  is  up?" 
Mr.  Hunt's  merry  eyes  beamed  above  his 


1 88   Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves 

fat  red  cheeks,  and  he  looked  the  picture  of 
beefy  good  nature. 

"  Mr.  Wick  wire  won't  let  me  buy  any 
meat,  because  I  can't  find  his  funeral 
gloves." 

Mr.  Hunt  dropped  his  cleaver  and  burst 
out  laughing.  "  Well,  is  that  his  latest?  " 

He  had  served  the  Wickwires  for  years, 
and  was,  besides,  a  member  of  the  same  re- 
ligious society,  so  he  knew  the  oddly  assorted 
couple  with  all  the  thoroughness  that  coun- 
try people  sometimes  give  to  acquaintance- 
ship. 

"  Well,  now,  Mis'  Wickwire,  you  aint  so 
stout  that  you've  got  to  stop  meat  to  reduce 
your  weight,  an'  jes'  so  long  as  I  swing  my 
bell  on  this  route  I'll  let  you  have  what  meat 
you  want,  an'  I'll  look  to  Truman  for  my 
money.  You've  always  paid  cash,  but  I'm 
not  afraid  of  losin'  my  money — not  while 
I  have  a  tongue  in  my  head,"  he  added  sig- 
nificantly. 

Mean  in  most  things,  Mr.  Wickwire  did 


Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves    189 

not  stint  himself  on  meat,  and  at  dinner  he 
ate  nearly  half  a  steak  before  he  remembered 
his  dictum. 

Then  he  uncorked  his  vials.  "  How  in 
thunder  did  you  get  this  meat?  Didn't  I 
tell  you  not  to  buy  any?  Have  you  found 
my  gloves  ?  " 

The  meek  little  woman  replied:  "No; 
but  Mr.  Hunt  insisted  on  me  takin*  what  I 
needed." 

Wickwire  stretched  his  lips  into  a  snarl- 
ing smile.  "  Well,  I  won't  insist  on  payin' 
him  what  he  needs  in  the  way  of  money. 
You  didn't  pay  him,  did  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  no;  you  told  me  not  to  buy 
any." 

The  smile  became  an  unpleasant  laugh. 
"  Well,  if  he  wants  to  give  us  meat,  all  right; 
but  I  didn't  order  the  meat,  and  I  won't  pay 
for  it,  not  if  he  supplies  us  for  the  rest  of 
our  lives." 

His  anticipation  of  getting  the  best  of  the 
butcher  put  him  in  such  good  humor  that  he 


190  Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves 

ate  twice  as  much  as  usual,  and  vouchsafed 
some  interesting  details  of  the  burial  he  had 
attended. 

East  Whitfield  was  four  miles  from  the 
Center,  and  as  Mr.  Wickwire  did  not  "  farm 
it,"  being  a  wheelwright,  they  relied  on  the 
butcher  'for  all  their  meat. 

Darius  Hunt  came  Wednesdays  and  Sat- 
urdays. The  next  Saturday  he  drove  up 
and  rang  his  bell.  Mrs.  Wickwire  was  out 
in  the  garden  picking  currants  to  make  jelly 
for  her  husband.  She  hurried  out  to  the 
wagon.  She  always  hurried  to  everything, 
so  that  no  one  might  be  kept  waiting  on  Her 
account. 

"  Good-morning.  Ham,  ram,  lamb,  beef, 
or  mutton?  Wickwire  found  his  gloves 
yit?" 

"No,  he  hasn't;  but  it  put  him  in  real 
good  humor  to  get  that  meat.  He  says  he 
aint  a-goin'  to  be  responsible  for  it."  Mrs. 
Wickwire  said  this  with  misgivings.  It 
was  her  duty  to  tell  the  butcher  that  he  was 


Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves    191 

likely  to  get  no  payment  for  his  meat;  but 
she  feared  that  he  would  refuse  to  let  her 
have  any  more,  and  then  she  knew  enough 
of  Truman  to  fear  his  tongue  at  a  meatless 
dinner. 

"  He  aint  a-goin'  to  be  responsible,  aint 
he?  Well,  I  aint  a-goin'  to  git  thin  over 
that  end  of  it.  What  '11  ye  have  to-day?" 

That  afternoon  the  butcher  met  Mr. 
Wickwire  in  the  Center.  He  was  going 
into  the  hardware  store,  which  stood  next  to 
the  office  of  the  Whitfield  Witness.  He 
had  come  into  town  on  business,  and  was 
dressed  in  his  Sunday  best. 

"  Afternoon,  Truman,"  said  Hunt,  in  his 
hearty,  pleasant  voice. 

Wickwire  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"  Hm,"  he  grunted. 

"  Got  a  little  bill  against  you  for  meat." 

Both  men  walked  over  to  the  curbstone 
to  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  Saturday  crowd. 

"  Don't  concern  me;  I  didn't  order  it," 
said  Wickwire. 


192   Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves 

"  No;  but  your  wife  did,  and  I  guess 
you're  responsible  for  her  debts." 

"  I  told  her  not  to  buy  any  more 
meat " 

"  Until  she  had  found  your  old  gloves. 
Well,  you  have  a  right  to  be  as  mean  as  it  is 
your  nater  to  be,  but  ef  you  don't  pay  spot- 
cash  now,  I'm  a-goin'  right  in  to  see  my 
good  friend  Editor  Mason  here  in  the  Wit- 
ness office,  an'  he'll  print  the  whole  story, 
an'  it  '11  be  good  readin'  fer  people  here- 
abouts. Tryin'  to  starve  a  wife  into 
findin'  your  mis'able  gloves !  n 

Wickwire  knotted  his  brows.  He  knew 
that,  although  the  butcher  was  a  good- 
natured  man,  he  had  plenty  of  determina- 
tion. He  did  not  care  to  have  the  story  go 
any  farther,  and  yet  he  hated  to  go  back  on 
his  word  to  his  wife.  While  he  hesitated, 
Hunt  took  a  step  in  the  direction  of  the 
Witness  office. 

Instantly  Wickwire  became  rattled,  and 
felt  in  every  pocket  but  the  right  one  for  his 


Truman  Wickwire's  Gloves    193 

purse.  At  last  his  hand  went  into  his  coat- 
tail  pocket  and — pulled  out  the  missing 
gloves. 

He  looked  at  them  in  sheepish  wonder  for 
a  minute. 

The  butcher  broke  the  silence.  "It's 
clear  that  Mrs.  Wickwire  don't  go  through 
your  pockets." 


The  Deception  of  Martha 
Tucker 

An  Automobile  Extravaganza 

IT  was  not  that  Martha  Tucker  was 
particularly  fond  of  horses  so  much  as 
that  she  was  afraid  of  automobiles  of 
every  sort,  kind,  or  description.  That  was 
why  she  said  that  she  would  never  consent 
to  her  husband's  purchasing  a  motor  car- 
riage. 

"  Horses  were  good  enough  for  my  father, 
and  I  guess  that  horses  will  do  for  me  as 
long  as  I  live  and  John  is  able  to  keep  them," 
said  she  to  various  friends  on  numerous  oc- 
casions. 

But  if  she  was  ridiculously  old-fashioned 
in  her  notions,  John  was  not,  and  he  cast 
about  in  his  mind  for  same  way  to  circum- 
vent Martha  without  her  knowing  it.  The 
194 


Martha  Tucker  195 

thing  would  have  been  easy  to  do  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  fact  that  they  were  a  very 
loving  couple.  John  seldom  went  anywhere 
without  taking  his  wife  along,  and  as  his 
business  was  of  such  a  nature  that  he  car- 
ried it  on  under  his  roof-tree,  he  was  unable 
to  speed  along  in  happy  loneliness  on  a  loco- 
mobile or  electric  motor.  Besides  all  this, 
John  Tucker's  conscience  was  such  a  pecu- 
liar affair  that  if  he  hoodwinked  Martha  it 
must  be  in  her  sight. 

The  Tuckers  always  spent  their  summers 
at  Arlinburg,  the  roads  around  which  were 
famous  for  driving;  and  almost  their  only 
outdoor  recreation,  aside  from  wandering 
afoot  in  the  fields,  was  found  in  riding  be- 
hind any  one  or  two  of  his  half-dozen  horses. 
The  fact  that  he  was  abundantly  able  to 
maintain  the  most  expensive  automobile  ex- 
tant made  it  doubly  hard  for  John  to  ab- 
stain from  the  use  of  one. 

"  I  gave  up  smoking  to  please  Martha 
when  we  first  married,  but  I  do  not  intend 


196  Martha  Tucker 

to  give  up  the  idea  of  running  an  automo- 
bile of  my  own,  just  because  she  has  the  old- 
fogy  notions  of  the  Hiltons  in  her  blood. 
Her  father  never  rode  in  a  steam-car,  al- 
though the  road  passed  by  his  back  door, 
and  all  the  Hiltons  are  old-fogyish — which 
sums  up  their  faults." 

John  said  this  to  an  old  schoolmate  who 
was  spending  a  Sunday  at  his  house. 

"  Wouldn't  she  try  one  of  your  neigh- 
bor's automobiles,  and  see  how  she  likes  it?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  her  no  is  a  no.  But  I  mean  to 
ride  in  one  with  her  sometime,  if  I  have  to 
blindfold  her  and  tell  her  it's  a  baby-car- 
riage." 

It  may  have  been  a  week  after  this  con- 
versation that  John  and  Martha  wandered 
in  the  woods  picking  wild  flowers,  and  Mrs. 
Tucker  was  inoculated  with  ivy-poisoning 
that  settled  in  her  eyes,  so  that  for  several 
days  she  was  confined  to  her  room,  and 
when  she  came  out  she  was  told  by  her 
doctor  to  wear  smoked  glasses  for  a  week  or 


Martha  Tucker  197 

two,  her  eyes  still  being  inflamed  and  very 
painful.  "  Keep  outdoors;  go  riding  as 
much  as  you  can,  but  don't  take  off  the 
glasses  until  the  inflammation  has  entirely 
subsided,"  said  he. 

John  was  sincerely  sorry  for  his  wife's 
misfortune,  but  when  he  heard  that  she 
would  see  through  a  glass  darkly  for  the 
matter  of  a  week  or  two,  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  act  and  act  quickly. 

They  went  out  for  a  ride  that  he  might 
test  her  vision.  The  horse  he  was  driving 
was  a  gray,  Roanoke  by  name. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Tucker,  "  don't  you 
think  that  the  gait  of  this  black  horse  is 
very  like  that  of  Roanoke?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,"  said  Martha. 
"  With  these  dismal  glasses  on  I'm  not 
quite  sure  whether  it's  a  horse  or  a  cow  in 
the  harness.  I  get  a  hazy  outline  of  some 
animal,  but  no  color  and  little  form.  Don't 
ever  touch  poison-ivy  if  you  value  your 
sight." 


198  Martha  Tuckeri 

"  Well,  the  doctor  says  you'll  be  all  right 
in  a  week  or  two.  By  the  way,  Martha,  I'm 
going  to  run  down  to  New  York  to-morrow 
on  business.  I'll  be  back  in  the  evening. 
If  your  eyes  were  all  right  you  might  come 
along,  but  as  it  is,  I  guess  you'd  better  not 
go  down." 

"  No ;  driving  around  with  James  will  do 
me  more  good  than  a  stuffy  train.  Come 

home  as  soon  as  you  can,  dear,  and " 

She  hesitated.  "  I  hate  the  old  things,  but 
if  you  are  so  set  on  trying  one  of  those  auto- 
mobiles, why  don't  you  do  it  to-morrow 
when  you  are  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  believe  I  will,  my  dear.  I  wish 
I  could  overcome  your  prejudice  against 
them." 

"  But  you  can't,  dear,  so  don't  try." 

When  Mr.  Tucker  reached  New  York, 
the  first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  visit  an 
automobile  repository. 

"  Would  it  be  possible  for  you  to  let  me 
have  an  automobile  that  could  be  operated 


Martha  Tucker  199 

from  behind,  so  that  my  wife  and  I  could  sit 
in  front  and  simply  enjoy  the  ride?  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  the  man.  "  We 
have  every  style  known  to  the  most  advanced 
makers." 

"And  could  I  have  shafts  attached  to  it 
so  that  if  it  broke  down  I  could  call  in  the 
services  of  some  horse?  " 

"  But,  sir,  our  machines  never  break 
down.  That  is  why  we  are  selling  one  every 
minute  in  the  working-day.  Our  agents 
are  located  in  every  known  city  of  the  earth, 
and  our  factories  are  running  day  and 
night,  and  in  spite  of  it  we  are  falling  be- 
hind in  our  orders  in  a  rapidly  increasing 
ratio." 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  said  Mr.  Tucker,  turning 
to  leave  the  store.  "  Then  I'm  afraid  I'll 
have  to  go  elsewhere,  as  I  wanted  one 
shipped  to  me  to-morrow  or  next  day.  A 
birthday  present  for  my  wife,  you  under- 
stand." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose,"  said  the  wily  salesman, 


2oo  Martha  Tucker 

"  that  I  could  let  you  in  ahead  of  your  turn 
if  the  payment  were  cash." 

"  Of  course  the  payment  will  be  cash. 
That's  the  only  way  I  ever  pay." 

A  half-hour  from  that  time  John  Tucker 
was  being  propelled  through  New  York's 
busy  streets  in  a  smoothly  running,  almost 
noiseless  automobile  worked  from  behind, 
and  its  way  led  down  to  a  harness  store  in 
Chambers  Street.  As  yet  there  were  no 
shafts,  but  he  had  provided  for  a  pair. 

Mr.  Tucker  went  into  the  harness-store. 
"  Good-day,"  said  he.  "  I  want  to  buy  a 
wooden  horse  like  the  one  out  in  front,  only 
covered  with  horse-skin." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "we  don't 
manufacture  them  ourselves,  but  we  can 
order  one  for  you.  Going  into  the  harness 
business?  " 

"  No,  but  I  want  to  try  an  experiment. 
Would  it  be  possible  for  me  to  have  a 
mechanical  horse  built  that  would  move  its 
legs  in  a  passable  imitation  of  trotting?" 


Martha  Tucker  201 

"  Nowadays  everything  is  possible/'  said 
the  salesman,  "  but  it  would  be  very  expen- 
sive." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  just  what  I  want  it 
for,"  said  Mr.  Tucker,  and  entered  into  de- 
tails concerning  Mrs.  Tucker's  aversion  to 
automobiles,  her  ivy-poisoning,  and  his 
scheme.  The  clerk  seemed  interested. 

"  If  the  lady's  eyes  are  as  inflamed  as  all 
that,"  said  he,  "  she  would  not  notice  the 
lack  of  natural  motion,  and  it  would  Be  easy 
to  place  a  contrivance  inside  of  the  figure 
that  would  imitate  the  sound  of  trotting, 
and  your  wife's  imagination  would  do  the 
rest.  But  I  think  that  your  idea  of  having 
the  horse  on  a  platform  like  the  one  out  front 
is  not  a  good  one.  If  the  platform  struck 
a  rock  in  the  road  it  would  knock  the  whole 
thing  to  smithereens.  Better  place  small- 
ish wheels  on  the  inner  side  of  the  ankles, 
fix  the  hind  legs  so  they  will  be  jointed  at 
the  thighs,  and  then  you  can  run  up  hill  and 
down  dale  with  no  trouble." 


2O2  Martha  Tucker 

Mr.  Tucker  clapped  his  hands  like  a  boy. 
"  That's  fine!  My  wife  will  get  thoroughly 
used  to  an  automobile  without  knowing  she 
is  riding  in  one,  and  then  when  she  recovers 
the  use  of  her  eyes  I'll  give  the  wooden  horse 
a  well-earned  rest.  Call  up  that  factory  on 
the  'phone,  and  I'll  order  my  hobby-horse 
at  once.  You  think  that  I  can  get  it  in  a  day 
or  two?" 

"  It's  only  a  question  of  expense,  sir,  and 
you  say  that  is  nothing." 

"  Of  course  it's  nothing.  Nothing  is  any- 
thing if  I  can  take  my  wife  out  automobiling 
without  her  knowing  it." 

Three  days  later  Mr.  Tucker  said  to  his 
wife  at  luncheon : 

"  My  dear,  as  this  is  your  birthday,  I  have 
given  myself  the  pleasure  of  buying  you  a 
new  horse  and  wagon,  and  it  will  be  ready 
for  us  to  go  out  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Oh,  you  dear,  thoughtful  man !  "  said 
Mrs.  Tucker,  beaming  as  well  as  she  was 
able  to  through  her  smoked  glasses.  Then 


Martha  Tucker  203 

she  rose  and  gave  him  a  kiss  that  made  him 
feel  that  he  was  a  guilty  wretch  to  be  medi- 
tating the  deception  of  such  a  lovable  wife. 
But  he  had  gone  too  far  to  retrace  his  steps 
now,  and  he  eased  his  feelings  with  the 
thought  that  the  end  would  justify  the 
means. 

"  You  are  always  doing  things  to  please 
me,"  said  she. 

"No  such  thing,"  he  replied.  "You 
may  not  like  this  horse  as  well  as  you  like 
Roanoke  or  Charley,  but  it  is  quite  a  swag- 
ger turnout,  and  I've  decided  to  have  James 
go  with  us  and  sit  behind  on  the  rumble." 

"  Oh,  but,  my  dear,  we  will  not  be  driving 
alone  if  he  is  with  us." 

"  Nonsense !  We've  been  married  twenty 
years,  and  anyhow  James  is  a  graven  image. 
He  will  not  know  we  are  along."  ("  He  will 
be  too  busy  running  the  thing,"  added  Mr. 
Tucker  mentally.) 

A  half-hour  later  Mr.  Tucker  announced 
to  his  wife  that  he  was  ready,  and  she  put  a 


2O4  Martha  Tucker 

few  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet,  bathed 
her  eyes  with  witch-hazel,  adjusted  her 
smoked  glasses,  and  went  out  to  the  porte- 
cochere. 

She  dimly  discerned  the  horse,  the  wagon, 
the  groom  at  the  horse's  head,  and  her  hus- 
band. There  was  an  indescribably  swagger 
look  about  the  equipage,  and  she  wished 
that  she  could  take  off  her  glasses  and  gloat 
over  her  new  possession,  but  the  doctor's 
orders  had  been  imperative.  She  did,  how- 
ever, approach  the  horse's  head  to  pet  him, 
but  her  husband  said :  "  Don't,  dear.  He 
may  not  like  women.  Wait  until  he  is  used 
to  us  before  you  try  to  coddle  him." 

They  stepped  to  their  seats;  the  groom 
left  the  horse's  head  and  handed  the  reins 
to  Mr.  Tucker,  mounted  the  rumble.,  and  off 
they  started. 

"Why,  it's  like  sailing,"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker. 

"  Pneumatic  tires,  my  dear,"  answered 
her  husband  glibly. 


Martha  Tucker  205 

"  And  how  rhythmical  the  horse's  hoof- 
beats  are!" 

"  An  evidence  of  blood,  my  darling.  I 
know  this  horse's  pedigree:  by  Carpenter 
out  of  Chestnut " 

"  Oh,  don't.  I  never  cared  for  those 
long  genealogies.  Whether  he  has  blood  or 
not,  he  is  certainly  the  smoothest  traveler  I 
ever  saw." 

They  had  been  skillfully  guided  along  the 
winding  path  that  led  to  the  highway  by  the 
chauffeur,  who,  although  he  was  a  James, 
was  not  the  James  who  generally  worked  in 
the  stable,  but  a  James  hired  at  the  office  of 
the  company  in  order  that  he  might  break 
in  the  local  James. 

After  they  reached  the  road  the  way  for 
a  mile  or  more  was  clear  and  straight,  and 
they  met  with  no  teams.  The  horse  was 
wonderfully  lifelike,  except  in  his  action,  or 
rather  lack  of  action,  for  his  forefeet  were 
eternally  in  an  attitude  of  rest.  The  hind 
legs  rose  and  fell  with  the  inequalities  of 


206  Martha  Tucker 

the  road,  and  his  mane  and  tail  waved  in  the 
breeze  like  the  real  horsehair  that  they  were. 

"  This  is  the  poetry  of  motion,"  said  Mrs. 
Tucker.  "  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  find 
an  automobile  that  can  run  like  this." 

"  I'll  admit  that  I  wouldn't  wish  one  to 
go  better.  Are  you  all  right  back  there, 
James?" 

"  All  right,  sir." 

"  Why,  how  queer  James'  voice  sounds ! 
I  never  noticed  that  squeak  in  it  before." 

"  It's  the  exhilarating  effect  of  our  fast 
driving.  Do  you  think  that  you  could  stand 
a  faster  pace?" 

"  Why,  if  you're  not  afraid  of  tiring  the 
horse.  He  seems  to  be  going  like  the  wind 
now." 

"  Oh,  he  won't  mind.     Faster,  James." 

"Why  do  you  say  that  to  James?  Did 
you  think  he  was  driving,  you  absent- 
minded  dear,  you?" 

"  I  did,  for  the  moment." 

James  was  sure  he  was  driving,  and  at  this 


Martha  Tucker  207 

command  from  his  employer  he  put  on  al- 
most the  full  force  of  the  electricity.  The 
wagon  gave  a  leap  forward,  and  turning 
into  a  macadamized  road  at  this  point,  they 
went  along  at  the  rate  of  twenty  miles  an 
hour. 

Mrs.  Tucker  clutched  her  husband's  arm. 
"  John,  his  speed  is  uncanny.  We  seem  to 
be  going  like  an  express-train." 

"  It's  the  smoothness  of  the  road  and  his 
perfect  breeding,  my  dear.  Do  you  notice 
that  this  furious  gait  does  not  seem  to  affect 
his  wind  at  all  ?  " 

"No,  I  hadn't  noticed  it;  but  isn't  it 
queer  how  regular  his  hoof-beats  are?  and 
they  do  not  seem  to  quicken  their  rate  at 
all." 

John  had  noticed  this,  too,  and  he  had 
regretted  not  having  told  the  manufacturer 
to  arrange  the  mechanism  so  that  the  hoof- 
beats  would  become  more  or  less  rapid  ac- 
cording to  the  gait;  but  he  answered 
quickly : 


208  Martha  Tucker 

"  That,  my  dear,  is  because  he  reaches 
farther  and  farther.  You  know  some 
breeds  of  horses  gain  speed  by  quickening 
their  gait.  This  horse  gains  it  by  a  length- 
ened reach.  He  is  a  remarkable  animal. 
Actually,  my  dear,  we  are  overtaking  a  loco- 
mobile." 

"  Oh,  John,  is  he  used  to  these  horrid 
steam-wagons?  " 

"  Nothing  will  frighten  this  horse, 
Martha.  You  can  rest  assured  of  that." 

A  minute  later  they  passed  the  locomo- 
bile. If  Mrs.  Tucker  could  have  seen  the 
,  codfish  eyes  of  the  occupant  of  the  vehicle 
when  he  saw  a  hobby-horse  going  by  at  the 
rate  of  twenty  miles  an  hour,  she  would 
have  questioned  his  sanity.  If  she  could 
have  seen  the  scared  looks  and  the  scared 
horse  of  the  people  in  the  approaching 
buggy  she  would  have  begun  to  wonder 
what  possessed  her  new  possession.  But 
her  goggles  saved  her  from  present  worry, 
and  the  buggy  was  passed  in  a  flash. 


Martha  Tucker  209 

"Oh,  I  do  wish  I  could  take  off  my 
glasses  for  a  minute  so  that  I  could  enjoy 
this  rapid  motion  to  the  full!  How  the 
trees  must  be  spinning  by !  " 

"  Don't  touch  your  glasses,"  said  Mr. 
Tucker  hurriedly.  "  If  a  speck  of  dust  or 
a  pebble  were  to  get  into  your  eye,  you  might 
become  permanently  blind.  Positively,  you 
are  like  a  child  with  a  new  rocking-horse. 
This  turnout  will  keep  until  your  eyes  are 
fully  recovered,  and  I  hope  we  may  enjoy 
many  a  spin  in  this  easy  carriage,  with  or 
without  this  horse." 

"  Never  without  him,  dear.  After  the 
delight  of  this  swift  motion  I  never  would 
go  back  to  lazy  Roanoke  or  skittish  Charley. 
I  have  never  ridden  in  any  carriage  that 
pleased  me  like  this  one." 

"  She's  a  convert  already  without  know- 
ing it,"  said  her  husband  to  himself,  but  her 
next  remark  dispelled  his  illusion. 

"  How  can  anyone  like  a  noisy  automobile 
better  than  this?  You  can't  improve  on 


2io  Martha  Tucker 

nature.  By  the  way,  I  forgot  to  ask  you  if 
you  rode  in  one  the  other  day  in  New 
York." 

"To  be  sure.  I  didn't  tell  you,  did  I? 
It  was  really  almost  as  nice  as  this,  although 
the  traffic  impeded  us  some.  OB,  James, 
look  out!" 

This  interruption  was  involuntary  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Tucker,  and  his  words  were  not 
noticed  by  his  wife  in  the  confusion  of  that 
which  followed.  They  were  going  down  a 
hill  at  a  fearful  rate,  when  the  off  foreleg 
of  the  wooden  horse  became  a  veritable  off 
foreleg,  for  it  hit  a  log  of  wood  that  had' 
dropped  from  a  teamster's  cart  not  five 
minutes  before,  and  broke  off  at  the  knee. 
The  jar  almost  threw  Mrs.  Tucker  out;  she 
grasped  the  dash-board  to  save  herself,  and; 
caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  the  oddly 
working  haunches  of  the  imitation  beast. 

"  Oh,  John,  he's  running  away." 

Now  this  was  not  quite  accurate,  for  he 
was  being  pushed  away  by  a  runaway  auto- 


Martha  Tucker  2M 

mobile.  Mr.  Tucker  noticed  the  increased 
speed  and  turned  to  admonish  James. 

James  had  left. 

The  departure  of  James  was  coincident 
with  the  collision,  and  he  was  at  that  mo- 
ment extricating  himself  from  a  sapling  into 
which  he  had  been  pitched.  He  yelled  direc- 
tions to  Mr.  Tucker  which  lacked  carrying 
power. 

The  vehicle  had  now  come  to  a  turn  in 
the  road,  and  not  receiving  any  impulse  to 
the  contrary,  it  made  for  a  stone  wall  that 
lay  before  it.  Mr.  Tucker  knew  nothing 
about  the  working  of  the  machine,  but  with 
admirable  presence  of  mind  he  seized  a  pro- 
jecting rod,  and  the  wagon  turned  to  the 
left  with  prompt  obedience,  but  so  suddenly 
that  it  ran  upon  two  wheels  and  nearly  up- 
set. 

So  far  so  good,  but  now  what  should  he 
do?  To  get  over  to  the  back  seat  was  either 
to  give  the  whole  thing  away,  or  else  make 
Mrs.  Tucker  question  his  courage. 


212  Martha  Tucker 

He  was  too  obstinate  to  disclose  his  secret 
until  he  should  be  forced  to,  so  he  sat  still 
and  awaited  developments.  Developments 
do  not  keep  you  waiting  long  when  you  are 
in  a  runaway  automobile,  and  in  just  one 
minute  by  his  watch,  although  he  did  not 
time  it,  the  end  came. 

Too  late  to  do  any  good,  John  Tucker 
jumped  over  the  back  of  the  seat,  because 
he  saw  the  wooden  horse  again  approaching 
a  stone  wall  beyond  which  lay  a  frog  pond. 

He  pulled  the  lever  as  before,  but  he  could 
not  have  pulled  it  hard  enough,  for  the  next 
moment  there  was  a  shock,  and  then  Mrs. 
Tucker  sailed  like  a  sprite  through  the  air 
and  landed  in  the  water  like  a  nymph,  while 
some  kindling  wood  in  a  horsehair  skin  was 
all  that  was  left  of  Mr.  Tucker's  thorough- 
bred. 

Mr.  Tucker  was  not  hurt  By  the  impact, 
for  he  had  grasped  an  overhanging  bough 
and  saved  himself.  He  dropped  to  earth, 
vaulted  a  stone  wall,  and  rescued  the  fainting 


Martha  Tucker  213 

figure  of  his  wife.  The  kindly  services  of  a 
farmer  procured  her  the  shelter  of  a  neigh- 
boring farmhouse. 

Mr.  Tucker  knew  from  past  experiences 
that  his  wife  was  an  easy  iainter,  and  after 
assuring  himself  that  no  bones  were  broken 
he  left  her  for  a  few  minutes  that  he  might 
run  out  to  seek  for  James,  who  might  be  at 
death's  door. 

He  found  him  gazing  upon  the  ruins  of 
the  wooden  horse. 

Upon  learning  that  the  man  was  unin- 
jured he  drew  a  bill  from  his  pocket  and 
said :  "  My  boy,  here's  money  for  your  ex- 
penses and  your  wages,  and  if  there  is  any 
go  in  this  machine,  run  her  to  New  York  and 
tell  your  people  that  they  can  have  fier  as  a 
gift.  I  am  through  with  automobiles/' 

But  a  half-hour  later  Mrs.  Tucker,  fully 
conscious  but  somewhat  weak,  sat  up  on  the 
bed  in  the  farmer's  best  chamber  and 
said : 

"  John,  I  think  that  if  it  had  been  a  horse- 


214 


Martha  Tucker 


less  automobile  it  wouldn't  have  been  so 
bad." 

Whereupon  John  overtook  James  just 
setting  out  for  New  York,  and  gave  him  an 
order  for  one  horseless  automobile. 

And  now  John  is  convinced  that  his  wife 
is  a  thoroughbred. 


The  Minister's  Henhouse 

REV.  SIGOURNEY  HARDWICKE, 
of  South  Hanaford,  was  very  suc- 
cessful with  hens.  He  had  begun  with  a 
hen  and  twelve  chickens  which  a  neigh- 
bor had  given  him,  and  he  now  had  a 
flock  of  fifty.  Of  course  all  this  had  not 
been  accomplished  without  a  severe  attack 
of  hen  fever,  but  as  the  disease  did  not  lead 
him  to  neglect  his  pastoral  duties  there  was 
none  in  his  flock — his  human  flock — who 
complained  of  his  devotion  to  the  feathered 
bipeds. 

.  When  he  had  but  thirteen,  an  old  dry- 
goods  box  slatted  with  laths  was  a  suffi- 
cient shelter,  and  later,  when  his  hatches 
averaged  eleven  to  the  setting,  the  woodshed 
sufficed  to  house  them  all;  but  now  with 
fifty  the  woodshed  was  sadly  inadequate, 

and  unless  he  could  manage  to  provide  a 
215 


216    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

better  abode  for  them  before  snow  flew,  his 
success  with  fowls  would  be  numbered 
among-  the  lost  arts.  Some  men  would  have 
bought  a  hammer  and  a  pound  or  two  of 
nails,  and  would  have  knocked  together  a 
good  enough  henhouse,  but  although  the 
Rev.  Sigourney  Hardwicke  had  a  hypnotic 
way  of  encouraging  hens  to  lay  when  other 
folk  were  vainly  clamorous  for  eggs,  and 
although  he  could  bring  the  most  fractious 
hen  through  the  period  of  incubation  with- 
out any  desertion  of  nest,  simply  by  moral 
suasion  and  the  force  of  a  good  example,  he 
hadn't  the  slightest  skill  in  the  use  of  tools. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Hardwicke  was  short  and 
stout  and  jolly,  and  it  was  said  of  him  that 
the  roosters  crowed  for  joy  at  the  sight  of 
him,  and  the  hans  would  hurry  off  to  their 
nests  to  lay  extra  eggs  for  him  whenever 
occasion  demanded.  He  lived  alone  in  the 
big  parsonage — the  last  incumbent  had  had 
thirteen  children  and  a  wife — for  although 
he  believed,  with  the  Bible,  that  it  is  not  good 


The  Minister's  Henhouse    217 

for  man  to  be  alone,  yet  he  was  still  waiting 
for  just  the  right  helpmeet. 

One  morning,  a  few  days  before  Thanks- 
giving, when  to  the  typical  country  sounds 
had  been  added  the  pleasant  noise  of  fowls 
scratching  among  fallen  and  crisp  leaves, 
and  the  air  was  pungent  with  autumn 
smoke,  Woodford  Upham  drove  by  the  par- 
sonage just  as  the  parson  came  out  oF  the 
kitchen  door  to  feed  his  flock.  They  were 
all  Black  Langshans,  and  as  handsome  a 
group  of  birds  as  one  would  be  likely  to  see 
outside  of  a  poultry  show,  their  merits  ap- 
pealing to  layman  and  fancier  alike. 

Mr.  Hardwicke  had  a  peculiar  call  for  his 
fowls.  "  Too — hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,"  'he 
sang  in  a  resonant  tenor,  and  the  dusky  birds 
came  flocking  from  all  corners  of  the  field, 
where  they  had  been  scratching,  to  pick  up 
the  grain  which  their  master  was  sowing 
broadcast.  Was  his  Sunday  flock  as  eager 
for  spiritual  sustenance? 

Mr.  Upham  reined  up.     a  Where  in  tarn 


2i8    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

— where  do  you  keep  'em  ?  "  said  Tie,  as  the 
mob  of  fowls  pushed  and  shoved  like  a 
human  crowd  at  a  public  function. 

"  Well,  they  keep  the  woodshed  warm 
holding  'em,"  said  the  minister  with  a 
chuckle.  "  I'm  thinking  seriously  of  giving 
up  my  study  to  them  and  taking  to  the 
woods  myself." 

Mr.  Upham  threw  the  reins  over  his 
horse's  ample  girth  and  got  out  of  the 
wagon. 

"  They  are  pretty,"  said  he  emphatically. 
"  I  used  to  think  that  a  hen  was  a  hen,  but 
I  don't  know " 

"  Well,  I've  killed  off  all  my  roosters,  so 
they  really  are  hens,"  said  the  minister  with 
a  whimsical  smile. 

"  Yes,  but  I  mean  I  believe  there  is 
something  in  breed.  You  ought  to  have  a 
henhouse.  Your  hens  are  gettin'  them- 
selves talked  about  a  good  deal.  Mrs.  Up- 
ham says  it  does  her  more  good  than  a  ser- 
mon to  see  the  way  you've  managed  to 


The  Minister's  Henhouse    219 

make  your  hens  pay.  She  never  has  eggs 
unless  they're  so  plenty  it  would  be  scan- 
dalous not  to,  and  she*  often  asks  me  to  find 
out  how  you  manage  it." 

Mr.  Hardwicke  stooped  over  and  stroked 
the  greenish-black  back  of  a  matron  of  two 
summers.  "  That's  it;  I  manage  it.  If  a 
hen  ought  to  lay  and  won't,  I  tempt  her 
palate  with  hot  food,  and  I  talk  to  her  a 
little  and  tuck  her  in  at  night,  and  she  gen- 
erally looks  at  it  my  way  after  a  few  days. 
If  she's  setting,  and  feels  like  visiting  her 
neighbors  instead  of  keeping  her  eggs  warm, 
I  talk  a  little  more,  and  maybe  shut  her  on 
her  nest  for  a  day  or  so,  and  she  finally  de- 
cides to  stay  by  the  ship  like  Captain  Law- 
rence, and  so  I  keep  up  my  average  of  eleven 
to  a  brood.  But  in  the  hen  business  as  in 
others  eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  suc- 
cess/' 

"  But  you  do  need  a  henhouse,"  said  Mr. 
Upham,  stepping  over  to  the  diminutive 
woodshed  and  looking  in. 


22O    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

"  Yes,  I  do  need  a  henhouse,  but  I  don't 
suppose  that  the  society  would  think  one  a 
part  of  my  perquisites,  as  I  may  not  be  here 
for  life.  There's  no  telling  how  long  you 
can  stand  my  sermons." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  make  them  any 
longer,"  said  Mr.  Upham  solemnly;  "  but  I 
don't  know  what  we  would  have  done  for 
eggs  last  week  when  we  had  my  wife's  folks 
out  to  see  us  if  we  hadn't  been  able  to  draw 
on  your  supply,  and  I  think  it's  the  general 
opinion  that  your  salary  aint  so  princely 
but  we  can  manage  somehow  to  squeeze  out 
enough  to  put  up  a  henhouse.  And  if  we 
ever  do  decide  to  get  another  minister — 
why,  we'll  have  to  see  to  it  that  he  keeps 
hens  before  we  give  him  a  call." 

Mortimer  Wallace,  the  Shakespearian 
reader,  had  a  summer  home  in  South  Hana- 
ford,  and  he  had  gone  in  for  fancy  fowls 
for  a  time,  but  although  fie  had  read  in 
Shakespeare  that  there  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs 
of  men  which  leads  on  to  fortune,  he  was 


The  Minister's  Henhouse    221 

out  of  town  when  the  flood  tide  came,  and 
so  he  reluctantly  decided  to  sell  the  Buff 
Cochins,  for  which  he  had  paid  fancy  prices, 
at  the  local  quotation  on  fowls,  which  was 
fifty  cents  a  head — weight  no  objection. 

His  last  hen  sold,  he  suffered  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  against  henkind  in  general,  and 
he  longed  to  sell  his  henhouse  that  -he 
might  forget  that  hens  existed. 

But  to  take  it  up  and  move  it  by  ox-power 
would  double  its  cost,  and,  besides,  South 
Hanaford  farmers  thought  it  a  trifle  too 
ornate  for  every-day  egg-laying,  and  so  he 
found  no  takers,  although  he  set  a  tempting 
price  upon  it.  But  when  Mr.  Upham  drove 
away  from  the  minister's  he  happened  to 
pass  the  Wallace  henhouse,  and  he  immedi- 
ately thought  that  here  were  two  wants  that 
offset  each  other-— Mortimer  Wallace's  wish 
to  be  rid  of  his  perpetual  reminder  of  his 
failure  as  a  fancier,  and  the  minister's  de- 
sire for  an  adequate  dwelling  for  his  thriv- 
ing fowls. 


222    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

He  spoke  of  it  to  Deacon  Abner  Curtis 
the  next  Sunday  while  they  were  waiting 
for  the  close  of  Sunday  school.  It  had  been 
an  immemorial  custom  for  the  older  men  to 
gather  together  on  the  church  steps  and  get 
rid  of  non-churchly  thoughts  by  talking 
them  out  before  service  began. 

'  You  know  that  Wallace  wants  to  sell 
his  henhouse,  and  it's  about  time  that  we 
bought  the  parson  a  place  for  his  chickens  to 
roost  in.  He's  shown  he's  the  only  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  these  parts  that  under- 
stands hens,  and  I  don't  see  why  we  couldn't 
buy  Wallace's  building  and  move  it  over  to 
the  parson's.  Thanksgiving  Day  comes  this 
week,  and  it  would  be  a  han'some  thing  to 
do." 

"  Haow  fur  is  it?"  asked  Deacon  Cur- 
tis. 

"  Half  a  mile." 

"  I  think  it's  a  good  projec'  fer  the  young 
people's  society.  The  church  moved  the 
chapel  an'  paid  fer  the  noo  stove,  and  it's 


The  Minister's  Henhouse    223 

time  the  young1  people  did  somethin'. 
What's  Wallace  want  fer  it?" 

Mr.  Upham  bowed  pleasantly  to  the  min- 
ister, who  was  just  entering  the  church. 
"  Twenty  dollars,"  said  he. 

"  Twenty  dollars  fer  that  hid  jus  bloo 
btiildin'?  His  wants  aint  small/' 

"  Well,  what  is  it  worth  ?  Suppose  you 
was  sellin'  it." 

"Oh,  that's  different.  I  never  sold  no 
henhouses  an'  I  dunno  what  I'd  ask,  but  I'd 
never  pay  twenty  dollars  fer  no  henhouse. 
No  hens  'd  be  wuth  it.  Why  can't  the  pastor 
knock  one  together  himself?  " 

"  He  aint  got  the  gift  of  the  ham- 
mer." 

The  bell,  which  had  been  tolling,  now 
stopped,  and  the  moaning  of  the  meTocteon 
gave  notice  of  the  end  of  worldly  discus- 
sions ;  but  at  the  prayer  meeting  in  the  even- 
ing it  was  proposed  by  the  President  of  the 
Christian  Endeavor  Society  that  Mr.  Wal- 
lace be  approached  and  sounded  as  to  the 


224    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

least  figure  for  which  he  would  part  with 
his  henhouse. 

Monday  morning  a  deputation  waited  on 
him  just  as  he  was  starting  out  to  fill  a  lec- 
ture engagement.  He  asked  the  spokesman 
to  jump  into  his  buggy  and  drive  with  him 
to  the  station,  and  on  the  way  there  William 
Curtis,  Abner's  son,  asked  him  what  was 
his  rock-bottom  price  for  selling  the  -hen- 
house. 

"  Well,  I  wanted  twenty,  but  I'll  sell  it  to 
him,  or  to  you  for  him,  for  fifteen  dollars 
because  he's  been  able  to  do  what  I  failed  to 
do — make  hens  lay." 

They  had  now  arrived  at  the  station,  and 
a  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Wallace  went  to 
Boston  to  read  "  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  and  Curtis  reported  the  conversa- 
tion to  the  treasurer  of  the  society. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  those  who  had  been 
so  fortunate  as  to  taste  it  that  there  was  no 
one  in  South  Hanaford,  or  in  Hanaford 
Center,  for  that  matter,  who  could  make 


The  Minister's  Henhouse    225 

such  orange  cake  as  Mrs.  Wallace.  The 
feathery  sponge  cake,  the  delicious  orange 
filling,  and  the  orange  frosting,  so  thick  and 
sweet,  would  have  been  worthy  of  the  great 
Savarin  himself,  if  Savarin  ever  knew 
anything  as  delicious  as  orange  layer  cake. 
Mrs.  Wallace  was  conscious  of  her  genius 
in  this  particular  line,  and  when  her  next- 
door  neighbor,  pretty  Zoe  Moulton,  came 
and  asked  her  if  she  would  be  willing  to 
make  one  of  her  cakes  for  an  ice-cream 
festival  that  was  to  be  given  at  the  Con- 
gregational church  Wednesday  evening, 
she,  being  a  most  obliging  woman,  willingly 
consented,  although  she  and  her  husband 
were  Swedenborgians.  Zoe  hurried  away, 
conscious  that  whoever  else  might  make 
a  cake,  to  her  would  belong  the  honor  of 
securing  the  cake  of  cakes,  the  pi&ce  de  re- 
sistance of  the  whole  festival. 

Young  people  delight  in  committees,  and 
one  committee  never  knows  what  another 
committee  has  done,  which  may  account  for 


226    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

the  fact  that  upon  Mr.  Wallace's  return  from 
his  Boston  trip  he  found  the  following  letter 
awaiting  him : 

DEAR  MR.  WALLACE  :  You  have  always  shown 
yourself  to  be  public  spirited,  and  I  have  been  asked 
on  behalf  of  our  young  people  to  request  you  to  give 
us  a  reading  at  a  little  jollification  we  intend  hold- 
ing next  Wednesday.  Anything  you  want  to  read 
will  be  listened  to  with  delight.  I  have  been  re- 
quested to  write  this  letter  by  the  Young  People's 
Society  of  Christian  Endeavor,  of  which,  unfortu- 
nately, I  am  not  a  member,  owing  to  age  limitations. 
Yours  cordially, 

SIGOURNEY  HARDWICKE. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  that  Mr.  Wal- 
lace had  been  asked  to  recite — for  his  health. 
There  are  no  people  who  are  expected  to  give 
so  much  for  nothing  as  entertainers  in  vari- 
ous lines — unless  it  be  ministers.  Perhaps 
it  was  a  fellow-feeling  that  made  the  lecturer 
sit  down  and  say  that  he  would  be  delighted 
to  accede  to  the  request.  He,  whose  date- 
book  was  full  to  repletion  and  for  whom 
bureaus  fought,  graciously  consented  to 
read  for  the  young  people,  as  it  happened 


The  Minister's  Henhouse    227 

to  be  an  open  date  with  him.  The  "  jolli- 
fication "  was  a  great  success,  and  not  only 
was  all  South  Hanaford  there,  but  many 
people  drove  out  from  Simsbury,  glad  to 
hear  Wallace  read  for  twenty-five  cents  ad- 
mission. In  Hartford  he  charged  a  dollar. 
He  was  in  fine  form,  and  responded  to  en- 
cores until  his  throat  might  well  have  been 
raw. 

After  the  literary  entertainment  was  con- 
cluded, the  entertainer  and  his  wife  sought 
the  tables  where  confections  were  to  be  dis- 
pensed— for  a  consideration.  In  order  to 
make  sure  that  the  cake  was  good,  Mr.  Wal- 
lace chose  that  which  his  wife  had  made,  and 
he  cheerfully  paid  thirty  cents  for  that  and 
the  ice-cream,  fifteen  cents  a  plate  being  the 
sum  usually  charged  at  suppers  and  festivals 
in  the  church. 

When  Mr.  Hardwicke  came  up  to  con- 
gratulate Mr.  Wallace  on  the  undeniable  hit 
that  he  had  made,  the  latter  "  blew  him  off  " 
to  cake,  if  one  may  be  pardoned  so  worldly 


228    The  Minister's  Henhouse 

an  expression  as  applied  to  so  good  a  man  as 
the  parson. 

While  the  supper  was  in  progress,  Wil- 
liam Curtis  arose  and,  in  the  halting  way, 
not  peculiar  to  him  alone,  said :  "  I — er — 
take  pleasure  in  announcing  on  behalf  of  the 
— er — Young  People's  Society  of  Christian 
Endeavor,  that  we  have  taken  in  this  evening 
a — er — trifle  over  twenty  dollars,  and  the 
sale  of  cake  will  bring  half  as  much  again. 
I  want  to  thank  those  who — er — who  do- 
nated the  cake,  and  I  think — er — that  we  all 
think — er — that  we  ought  to  thank — er — 
Mr.  Wallace  for  responding  so  generously 
with  his  choice  selections.  We  wondered 
how  we  could  afford  to  do  what  we — er — 
wanted  to  do,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  his 
kindness  in  reducing  the  price  of  his  hen- 
house in  the  first  place,  'and  then  in — er — 
kindly  consenting  to  give  us  his — er — more 
than  valuable  services  this — er — evening,  it 
would  not  have  been  possible  for  us  to  pur- 
chase his  henhouse  and  present  it  as  a — er — 


The  Minister's  Henhouse     229 

Thanksgiving  offering  to  our — er — beloved 
and  worthy  pastor." 

When  he  sat  down  with  a  moist  forehead 
and  a  sense  of  having  done  his  duty  he  was 
astonished  to  hear  a  hearty  and  general  guf- 
faw follow  a  momentary  silence.  In  the 
midst  of  it,  and  while  Mr.  Curtis  was  won- 
dering what  had  caused  it,  Mr.  Wallace  and 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Hardwicke,  moved  by  similar 
impulses,  arose  and  walked  toward  each 
other  and  shook  hands. 

Then  Mr.  Hardwicke  said  with  unction, 
"  This  is  undoubtedly  good  old  New  Eng- 
land." 


The  Men  Who  Swapped 

Languages 

THERE  are  many  persons  in  the  world 
to  whom  some  of  the  facts  in  this 
story  will  seem  improbable.  I  have  no 
fault  to  find  with  them.  Thirty  years 
ago  they  would  have  said  that  the  phono- 
graph was  not  only  improbable,  but  impos- 
sible. I  cannot  explain  how  M.  Jean  Al- 
bertin  obtained  entire  command  of  Howard 
Benton's  remarkably  fine  English  vocabu- 
lary any  more  than  I  can  explain  how  the 
phonograph  so  successfully  catches  the  sound 
of  the  human  voice  and  reduces  it  to  an  ab- 
surd squeak.  I  know  that  it  does  this  thing, 
and  I  know  that  M.  Albertin  not  only  se- 
cured the  English  speech  of  his  friend,  but 
gave  him  his  own  equally  great  command 
of  French,  just  as  men  exchange  pieces  of 
real  estate. 

230 


Swapped  Languages       231 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  go  somewhat 
into  detail  in  this  matter.  M.  Albertin  was 
about  to  go  to  America  in  the  interest  of  a 
French  house,  and  he  had  absolutely  no  Eng- 
lish beyond  a  few  rather  idiotic  phrases.  He 
was  a  man  of  fine  natural  ability  and  attain- 
ments, with  a  charm  of  manner  that  made 
friends  for  him  among  all  classes.  Indeed 
although  thoroughly  at  home  among  the 
most  cultivated,  he  was  fond  of  seeking  ac- 
quaintances among  the  lowly  born  merely 
that  he  might  study  the  manners  of  man  in 
all  walks  of  life,  and  it  was  this  democratic 
tendency  that  was  the  cause  of  his  undoing. 

M.  Albertin  believed  that  what  was  worth 
doing  at  all  was  worth  doing  well,  but  he 
lacked  the  time  to  learn  English,  as  his 
American  trip  was  undertaken  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  A  few  days  before  he  sailed 
he  met  in  a  cafe  his  good  friend  Howard 
Benton,  of  Boston,  who — it  may  be  a  mere 
coincidence — is  acquainted  with  both  Nik- 
ola Tesla  and  Thomas  Edison,  although  he 


232        Swapped  Languages 

himself  is  not  an  inventor,  but  a  man  of 
leisure. 

Benton,  although  a  university  man,  was 
unable  to  speak  French  fluently,  although, 
strange  to  say,  he  could  write  it  exceedingly 
well.  But  he  was  devoting  much  of  his 
leisure  time  to  the  mastery  of  the  oral  lan- 
guage. These  dry  details  are  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  proper  understanding  of  the 
subsequent  events. 

Now  we  come  to  the  unexplainable  part. 
I  was  an  ear  witness,  but  I  can  offer  no  ex- 
planations. I  was  sitting  at  a  neighboring 
table;  I  knew  them  both  slightly,  and  there 
is  no  manner  of  doubt  that  on  a  sudden  M. 
Albertin  began  to  speak  an  English  as  idio- 
matic and  pure  as  the  best.  And  Benton  re- 
plied in  a  faultless  French. 

Both  burst  out  laughing  as  gleefully  as 
children,  and  said  something  that  I  did  not 
catch,  and  then  came  mutual  congratula- 
tions. 

"  I  would  have  been  willing  to  pay  you 


Swapped  Languages       233 

for  your  language,"  said  Mr.  Benton,  "  but 
if  we  exchange  I  fancy  that  one  is  as  valu- 
able as  the  other,  as  mine  is  of  the  Boston 
variety,  and  has  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  for  seven  generations,  and 
I  certainly  recognize  the  perfection  of 
yours." 

After  a  little  desultory  conversation  Al- 
bertin  suddenly  burst  out  laughing.  "  Upon 
my  word,"  said  he  naively,  "  I  did  not  sup- 
pose that  I  spoke  French  with  such  distinc- 
tion. It  amuses  me  to  hear  the  actual  tongue 
that  I  have  been  wagging  all  my  life.  But 
please  be  careful  of  it.  Don't  let  it  get 
broken." 

Then,  in  high  good  humor,  they  pledged 
each  other's  health.  Benton's  last  words  as 
they  left  the  cafe  together  were :  "  Do  be 
careful  of  my  dear  old  tongue,  for  if  I  ever 
do  return  to  America  I  want  enough  lan- 
guage to  properly  berate  the  Customs 
officers." 

M.   Albertin  shortly  afterward  went  to 


234       Swapped  Languages 

New  York.  He  carried  with  him  valuable 
letters  that  opened  to  him  the  doors  of  the 
most  desirable  people,  both  American  and 
French,  and  his  masterly  use  of  English, 
added  to  his  charms  of  mind  and  manner, 
made  him  much  sought  after.  It  was 
thought  queer  that  he  never  uttered  a  word 
of  French,  but  it  was  attributed  to  a  species 
of  vanity,  as  some  of  his  compatriots  who 
had  known  him  in  Paris  knew  his  facile  use 
of  the  language  of  Moliere.  He  was  not  a 
babbler  about  his  own  affairs,  and  if  Amer- 
icans thought  him  odd  because  he  talked  a 
better  English  than  nine-tenths  of  the  New 
Yorkers,  his  self-conceit  was  tickled.  For 
strangely  enough  he  was  proud  of  his  com- 
mand of  this  tongue  that  had  come  to  him 
already  prepared  like  Chicago  canned 
tongue.  On  the  other  hand,  if  his  compa- 
triots, especially  those  who  had  heard  and 
known  him  in  Paris,  were  puzzled  because 
he  always  replied  to  their  French  in  ready 
English,  he  implied  that  they  had  better  go 


Swapped  Languages       235 

and  do  likewise,  and  give  over  their 
"  wizzes  "  and  "  zats." 

From  time  to  time  he  picked  up  French 
words  and  phrases,  just  as  any  American 
does,  but  he  was  not  by  nature  a  linguist, 
and  he  would  never  gain  the  careless  ease 
and  rapid  flow  that  had  been  characteristic 
of  his  speech  at  home. 

It  has  been  said  that  M.  Albertin  had  a 
taste  for  all  kinds  of  life,  and  when  he  found 
himself  in  New  York — that  city  of  aston- 
ishing contrasts — he  took  frequent  opportu- 
nities for  gratifying  the  taste.  In  turn, 
"Chinatown,"  "Little  Italy,"  and  all  the 
various  settlements  of  the  Castle  Garden 
graduates  were  visited  by  him,  and  he 
scraped  acquaintance  with  representatives  of 
every  country  on  the  map  of  Europe.  But 
neither  Pole,  nor  Italian,  nor  German 
amused  him  as  much  as  did  the  New  York 
"tough."  M.  Albertin  had  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  the  metaphors  and  the  exaggera- 
tions of  the  Bowery  boy  appealed  to  him  as 


236       Swapped  Languages 

they  had  appealed  to  Thackeray  nearly  forty 
years  before. 

Upon  one  of  these  excursions  into  low 
life  M.  Albertin  fell  in  with  a  gentleman  by 
the  name  of  Buck  Mulrennan,  a  man  whose 
speech  was  picturesque  as  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains, and  who  was  said  to  have  been  the 
original  of  many  a  newspaper  sketch.  And 
Buck  found  something  to  admire  in  this 
affable  Frenchman  who  was  such  a  "  slick 
chinner."  One  evening  during  a  conversa- 
tion between  the  two  in  a  Bowery  music 
hall,  M.  Albertin  was  seized  with  the  mad 
whim  of  temporarily  swapping  speech  with 
Mr.  Mulrennan. 

The  exchange  was  made,  and  M.  Al- 
bertin, who  was  feeling  somewhat  gay, 
treated  the  affair  as  a  huge  joke.  He  roared 
with  laughter  at  hearing  Buck  use  words 
and  phrases,  and  a  style  of  enunciation  that 
had  been  foreign  to  him  for  generations — 
to  put  it  mildly.  As  for  Buck,  he  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  was  amused 


Swapped  Languages       237 

at  hearing  the  elegant  M.  Albertin  use  col- 
loquialisms and  slang  of  the  East  Side,  and 
the  two  passed  an  evening  of  real  delight  in 
each  other's  company.  But  when  the 
Frenchman  went  to  his  hotel  he  unaccount- 
ably neglected  to  re-exchange  the  two  very 
diversified  specimens  of  speech,  and  thus 
Buck  was  enabled  to  visit  several  "  cafes  " 
(to  use  a  pleasant  "  Puritanism  ")  to  show 
off  his  new  acquirement. 

M.  Albertin  lived  at  the  Schiedam-Haar- 
lem Hotel.  Something  was  the  matter  with 
the  steam  pipes  the  next  morning,  and  he 
summoned  a  hall  boy.  When  the  boy  came 
M.  Albertin  opened  the  door  and  said,  with 
the  charm  of  manner  that  distinguished 
him: 

"  Soy,  cully,  w'at  fell's  de  matter  wit  der 
heat?  Me  back  bone  is  an  icicle  an*  me 
blood  '11  lose  its  charter  if  it  don't  begin  run- 
nin'  again  soon.  Pump  some  heat  up  an'  be 
quick.  See  ?  " 

This  from  courtesy  itself  was  sufficiently 


238       Swapped  Languages 

stupefying,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the  lan- 
guage the  Frenchman  used  to  the  hotel  clerk 
some  minutes  later. 

That  functionary  thought  that  M.  Al- 
bertin  had  taken  leave  of  his  senses,  and  so 
did  the  waiter,  who,  on  approaching  the 
breakfast  table  at  which  the  Parisian  sat  was 
greeted  with,  "  Ah,  git  a  move  on." 

"  Yes,  sir.  Cold  morning,  sir.  What 
shall  it  be  this  morning,  sir?  " 

"  Bring  me  a  stack  of  wheats  an'  some  hot 
Scotch." 

"  Hot  Scotch  at  breakfast,  sir?  "  said  the 
waiter,  surprised  out  of  his  usual  self-con- 
trol. 

"Gee,  can't  youse  take  a  joke?  I  mean 
hot  Scotch  oatmeal.  An*  soy,  folly  dat  up 
wit'  a  dish  er  chuck  an'  a  moiphey  on 
der  half  shell.  Come,  sherry  yer  nibs, 
now." 

Of  course,  the  waiter  understood  M.  Al- 
bertin,  for  he  had  been  born  and  brought  up 
in  the  Ninth  himself,  but  the  language 


Swapped  Languages       239 

sounded  out  of  place  in  the  beautiful  break- 
fast room  of  the  Schiedam-Haarlem. 

As  for  M.  Albertin,  what  had  seemed  a 
good  joke  by  gaslight  was  a  hideous  thing 
in  the  light  of  day,  and  the  perspiration  was 
pouring  down  his  face  in  spite  of  the  trouble 
with  the  steam  pipes.  He  knew  too  well 
what  had  happened.  It  had  been  a  hazy  jest 
the  night  before,  but  now,  unless  he  could 
find  Buck  and  induce  him  to  return  his 
tongue,  it  was  an  irrevocable  and  dreadful 
reality. 

During  the  rest  of  the  meal  he  fell  back 
upon  the  little  French  that  he  had  managed 
to  pick  up  from  his  compatriots,  and  he 
summoned  the  head  waiter,  who  was  a 
Frenchman,  to  attend  him.  But  it  was  any- 
thing but  an  amelioration  of  his  woe,  for  the 
head  waiter,  of  course,  knew  M.  Albertin's 
nationality,  and  could  hardly  conceal  his 
contempt  for  a  man  who  had  so  poor  a 
grasp  of  his  mother  tongue. 

The  breakfast  over,  M.  Albertin  opened 


240       Swapped  Languages 

the  morning  paper  and  found  two  items  of 
the  most  awful  interest  to  him.  One  was  in 
the  nature  of  a  reminder.  His  ease  in  Eng- 
lish had  led  to  his  being  called  upon  to  speak 
at  various  dinners,  and  this  was  an  an- 
nouncement of  the  annual  dinner  of  the 
Chaucer  Society  at  the  Harland  House.  It 
ran :  "  Among  the  speakers  will  be  that  ac- 
complished linguist,  M.  Albertin,  who  out- 
rivals the  Chinese  Ambassador  in  his  grasp 
of  an  alien  language.  He  will  respond  to  the 
toast,  '  The  Purity  of  English;  May  it  Never 
Grow  Less/ ' 

With  what  pleasure  he  had  looked  for- 
ward to  this  occasion !  With  what  apt  quo- 
tations from  "  The  Canterbury  Tales " 
would  he  have  interlarded  his  speech.  With 
what  pride  would  he  have  watched  the  grow- 
ing interest  in  the  faces  of  his  auditors  as  he, 
a  foreigner,  tossed  airy  phrases  off  his 
tongue  as  a  child  throws  bubbles  from  a  pipe 
bowl !  But  now ! 

But  the  other  piece  of  news  was  a 
crusher. 


Swapped  Languages        241 

"  BUCK    MULRENNAN    KlLLED    FOR    HlS 

TONGUE.    Too  MUCH  WILLIE-BOY." 

This  was  the  elegant  headline,  and  the 
news  was  that  Buck  had  been  shot  dead  by 
an  inebriated  longshoreman  who  objected  to 
the  ultra-polished  language  of  an  erstwhile 
tough. 

"  Dere  goes  Bent'n's  langwidge,"  said  M. 
Albertin  out  loud,  but  to  himself  he  thought 
in  French : 

"  Oh,  how  miserable!  How  can  I  ever 
face  my  friend  Benton  again?  I  have  lost 
the  language  of  which  he  told  me  to  be  so 
careful.  And  the  poor  Buck.  That  it 
should  be  my  fault  that  he  thus  meets  the 
death." 

Sympathy  for  his  quondam  acquaintance 
was,  however,  swallowed  up  in  an  over- 
whelming pity  for  himself  when  he  should 
acquaint  Benton  with  his  irreparable  loss. 
He  could  not  make  it  good  in  any  way.  It 
was  a  debt  of  honor  which  he  could  not  re- 
pay. Why  had  he  allowed  his  tongue  to 


242       Swapped  Languages 

wander  even  for  a  night?  He  put  on  his 
coat  and  hat  and  walked  out  of  doors,  here, 
there,  anywhere.  Should  he  attend  the  ban- 
quet, and  in  broken  French  talk  about  the 
preservation  of  the  purity  of  English? 
Should  he  stay  away  and  thus  insult  the  men 
who  were  honoring  France  in  honoring  him  ? 
He  could  see  no  way  open  to  him  that 
brought  peace  with  honor. 

He  found  himself  at  last  on  an  elevated 
train,  and  with  instinctive  politeness  he  rose 
to  give  his  seat  to  a  lady  who  entered  the 
car  soon  after. 

She,  with  a  gracious  bow  and  smile,  re- 
fused it.  "  I  am  going  but  a  few  blocks," 
said  she. 

"  Ah,  g'wan.  Take  der  seat.  Wouldn't 
I  look  like  a  gilly  sittin'  an*  youse  standin'  ? 
Take  der  seat,  loidy,  take  der  seat." 

Covered  with  confusion,  the  lady  sank 
into  the  seat,  and  M.  Albertin,  blushing  scar- 
let, went  out  upon  the  platform  to  try  to 
forget  himself,  for  the  whole  car-full  was  in 


Swapped  Languages       243 

a  titter  at  the  incongruity  between  his  lan- 
guage and  his  dress  and  manner.  But  this 
incident  gave  him  a  cue  for  his  action  in  the 
evening. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  back  to  the  hotel 
and  found  a  cablegram  from  Paris  calling 
him  back  on  the  next  steamer.  The  reason 
for  his  desired  return  would  have  filled  him 
with  joy  the  day  before,  as  it  was  no  less 
than  the  announcement  of  a  legacy  of  sev- 
eral hundred  thousand  francs,  but  now  a 
prompt  return  meant  a  speedy  meeting  with 
the  man  whom  he  had  so  cruelly  robbed  of 
his  language.  And  there  was  still  the  din- 
ner. That  would  take  place  before  the 
steamer  sailed ! 

But  the  dinner  would  now  take  care  of  it- 
self, thanks  to  his  experience  on  the  train. 
To-day  was  Friday.  He  would  make  an 
ass  of  himself  at  the  banquet  and  then  go 
directly  to  the  steamer,  and  in  a  few  hours 
he  would  be  detached  from  most  of  his  sub- 
lunary troubles,  for  a  week  at  least,  and  it 


244       Swapped  Languages 

might  turn  out  that  Howard  Benton  would 
have  no  further  use  for  his  language,  and 
would  be  willing  to  settle  for  its  loss  on  a 
money  basis  .which,  thanks  to  the  legacy,  it 
would  be  perfectly  possible  to  meet. 

He  kept  as  quiet  as  possible,  and  went  over 
and  over  in  his  mind  the  speech  of  the  even- 
ing. He  had  luncheon  served  in  his  room, 
and  went  from  the  hotel  to  the  banquet  hall 
without  speaking  to  a  soul,  paying  the  cab- 
man with  a  wealth  of  dumb  show. 

"  Poor  feller,"  said  the  latter,  as  he  got 
up  on  the  box  after  depositing  M.  Albertin 
at  the  door  of  the  Harlan3  House.  "  It's  a 
turribil  afflicshin  to  be  widout  visible  manes 
of  spache." 

Luckily  M.  Albertin  was  a  little  late  Tor 
the  dinner,  and  was  seated  between  two 
slightly  deaf  men  who  were  perfectly  willing 
to  do  all  the  talking  themselves,  and  it  was 
not  until  he  was  called  upon  for  a  speech 
that  he  had  to  do  more  than  respond  in 
monosyllables. 


Swapped  Languages       245 

He  rose  in  his  seat  and  all  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him.  As  has  been  hinted,  he  already 
had  a  New  York  reputation  as  a  witty  and 
singularly  facile  after-dinner  speaker  whose 
matter  was  as  good  as  his  manner,  and  his 
language  more  felicitous  than  either. 

He  slowly  scanned  the  expectant  diners 
with  a  preternaturally  grave  face. 

"  Chairman  an'  Gents  all,  ah  dere!  "  (as- 
tonishment and  puzzled  laughter).  "  I  have 
been  ast  ter  respon'  to  der  toas' '  Der  Purerty 
of  Englush.'  Gee,  dat's  a  hot  bunch  of 
grapes  fer  me  to  han'le,  but  it's  up  to  me,  an' 
I  s'pose  I'm  nex'. 

"  Der  mos'  of  der  gang  er  spiketails  here 
knows  dat  I'm  a  Frenchy.  Me  farder  an' 
me  mudder  was  bot'  natives  of  der  red-hot 
city  an'  in  me  chil'hood  on'y  der  pures' 
French  dat  could  be  got  was  inserted  in  me 
talk  box  be  means  of  me  ears.  Ware  an' 
how  I  got  der  same  twist  on  Englush  it 
wouldn'  interes'  youse  ter  hear  ter-night, 
but  I  got  me  hooks  on  it  wit'out  damergin' 


246       Swapped  Languages 

der  goods — as  youse  kin  see — an'  I'm  here 
ter-night  ter  give  youse  points  on  der 
preservation  of  it.  No,  not  Five  Points,  as 
der  feelintropical  gent  at  me  left  has  ser- 
gested.  Five  Points  is  a  dead  issue. 

"  Mos'  of  us  gits  der  accent  in  our  yout' 
dat  we're  go'n'  ter  carry  to  der  undertaker's 
garden.  Dere  has  been  cases  of  people 
loinin'  ter  talk  like  a  Harvard  perfesser 
w'en  deir  boyhood  hadn'  been  foun'  guilty  of 
grammar,  but  it's  not  comm'n.  Derefore  der 
bes'  way  fer  a  kid  ter  fill  his  nut  full  of  a 
choice  an'  hollerday  assortment  of  Englush 
is  to  hear  nut'n'  but  der  mos'  carefully  se- 
lectet  bran's  all  t'rough  his  kidhood." 

Already  his  speech  was  a  success.  This 
Frenchman  who  could  take  the  salient  points 
of  tough  speech  and  caricature  them  to  befit 
his  use  and  do  it,  too,  with  such  an  uncon- 
scious air,  was  worth  a  half-dozen  ordinary 
pedantic  talkers.  Here  and  there  were 
shocked  faces,  but  these  mostly  belonged  to 
men  who  lived  too  far  from  New  York  to 


Swapped  Languages       247 

recognize  the  dialect.  The  younger  men 
hailed  it  with  delight  and  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  it  would  have  a  deteriorating  effect 
upon  their  own  accents,  so  imitative  are  the 
young  in  great  cities. 

"  Many  Americ'ns  "  (he  went  on)  "  are 
fon'  of  der  use  of  slang.  Dey  t'ink  it's 
smart,  an*  dey  put  inter  use  a  woid  dat  is 
hot  from  der  griddle.  But  woids,  like 
Rome,  can't  be  built  in  a  day,  an'  it's  much 
better  to  use  on'y  dose  dat  c'n  show  der 
badge  of  der  fifty-year-ol'  dictionaries,  an' 
w'y?  Because  it's  a  t'ousan'  times  better 
to  put  a  langwidge  on  stilts  dan  on  crutches. 

"  So,  in  conclusion,  lemme  say,  T'ink  bee- 
fore  youse  speak,  an'  let  yer  speech  be 
golden,  an'  der  bes'  way  to  make  it  so  is  to 
keep  silence — fer  silence  is  golden.  See? 
An'  dat  lets  me  out." 

After  the  speech  was  finished  certain 
members  of  the  Chaucer  Society  wanted  to 
carry  M.  Albertin  around  the  room  on  their 
shoulders,  but  with  many  shrugs  and  point- 


248       Swapped  Languages! 

ings  to  the  cablegram  and  the  clock,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  coat-room  and  thence  to  the 
steamer,  whither  he  had  caused  his  baggage 
to  be  sent. 

Next  morning,  just  before  he  sailed,  he 
bought  a  bundle  of  morning  papers,  fully 
prepared  to  be  held  up  to  ridicule  by  the  re- 
porters; but  to  his  real  astonishment  he 
found  that  he  had  become  famous  in  a  single 
night.  Some  reported  the  speech  in  full, 
and  M.  Albertin  was  amused  to  see  how  the 
spellings  of  the  dialect  differed.  All  united 
in  saying  that  as  an  inverted  object  lesson 
on  purity  of  diction  it  was  one  of  the  happi- 
est efforts  in  the  annals  of  post-prandial  elo- 
quence and  worthy  of  the  occasion. 

"Ah,  well,"  thought  M.  Albertin,  "I 
leave  in  time.  I  have  known  when  to  stop, 
and  my  reputation  will  increase  in  the  retro- 
spect. I  could  not  have  kept  it  up."  And 
then  the  steamer  swung  out  and  he  imme- 
diately retired  to  his  cabin,  for  he  was  not  a 
good  sailor. 


Swapped  Languages        249 

When  he  reached  France  he  acted  like  an 
honorable  man.  He  first  sought  out  Howard 
Benton  and  told  him  what  had  happened  to 
his  tongue.  As  he  said,  "  I  can't  do  nut'n 
but  pay  yer  fer  it  an'  ask  fer  me  own  chin- 
music  back.  Youse  had  a  good  grip  on 
French  beefore,  so  youse  won't  fall  down, 
but  wit'out  me  French  I'm  a  dead  farmer 
over  here." 

Howard  Benton  saw  the  justice  of  his 
plea  and  settled  with  him  for  the  loss  of  his 
language  on  a  basis  of  ten  thousand  dollars. 
And  then,  being  robbed  of  his  pure  French, 
he  went  to  work  to  learn  it  in  the  ordinary 
way,  and  in  a  year's  time  he  had  con- 
quered it. 

Returning  voyagers  often  brought  to  M. 
Albertin  reports  of  the  esteem  as  an  imper- 
sonating speaker  that  he  had  gained  in  New 
York,  but  he  was  too  wise  to  return,  as  he 
really  had  not  the  slightest  native  skill  in 
rendering  dialects  and  was  quite  content  to 
rest  on  his  easily  acquired  laurels. 


250       Swapped  Languages 

What  might  have  been  a  great  disaster  to 
him  and  to  Mr.  Benton  had  happily  been 
averted  by  the  news  in  the  telegram.  If 
Benton  had  been  less  of  a  cosmopolite — 
which  is  a  euphemism  for  one  whose  love 
of  country  has  abated — he  might  have 
longed  to  go  home  and  talk  the  speech  of  his 
youth,  and  then  his  uncouth  dialect  would 
have  been  a  hindrance  to  him,  but  he  rarely 
used  it,  as  most  of  his  friends  were  French- 
men. 

Now  and  then,  in  a  spirit  of  mis- 
chief, he  aired  it  in  order  to  test  French- 
men's ears,  and  once  he  visited  the  Salon 
in  company  with  a  venerable  French  jurist 
and,  pausing  before  one  of  Whistler's  paint- 
ings, he  said :  "  Soy,  Munseer  Chartrocce, 
dere's  a  '  siffleuse '  dat  may  pipe  off  der  key 
now  an'  den,  but  ully  gee !  who  wouldn'  like 
to  swipe  his  pipes?  " 

And  M.  Chartreuse  replied  in  French: 

"  Do  you  know  that  I  can  understand  the 
Britons  when  they  speak  English,  but  while 


Swapped  Languages       251 

your  American  has  a  droll  sound,  it  is  like 
German  to  me.  I  fancy  it  has  the  strength 
of  a  growing  tongue." 

"  Right  you  are,  Munseer,"  said  Benton. 
"  It's  growin'  ter  beat  der  ban'." 


While   the    Automobile    Ran 
Down 

A  Christmas  Extravaganza 

IT  was  a  letter  to  encourage  a  hesitating 
lover,  and  certainly  Orville  Thornton, 
author  of  "Thoughts  for  Non-Thinkers/' 
came  under  that  head.  He  received  it  on  a 
Tuesday,  and  immediately  made  up  his 
mind  to  declare  his  intentions  to  Miss  An- 
nette Badeau  that  evening, 

But  perhaps  the  contents  of  the  letter  will 
help  the  reader  to  a  better  understanding  of 
the  case. 

DKAR  ORVILLE:  Miss  Badeau  sails  unexpectedly 
for  Paris  on  the  day  after  Christmas,  her  aunt 
Madge  having  cabled  her  to  come  and  visit  her. 
Won't  you  come  to  Christmas  dinner  ?  I've  invited 
the  Joe  Burtons,  and  of  course  Mr.  Marten  will  be 
there,  but  no  others—except  Miss  Badeau. 

Dinner  will  be  at  sharp  seven.  Don't  be  late,  al- 
though I  know  you  won't,  you  human  time-table. 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down    253 

I  do  hope  that  Annette  will  not  fall  in  love  in 
Paris.  I  wish  that  she  would  marry  some  nice  New 
Yorker  and  settle  near  me. 

I've  always  thought  that  you  have  neglected  mar- 
riage shamefully. 

Remember  to-morrow  night,  and  Annette  sails  on 
Thursday.     Wishing  you  a  Merry  Christmas,  I  am, 
Your  old  friend, 

HENRIETTA  MARTEN. 

Annette  Badeau  had  come  across  the  line 
of  Orville's  vision  three  months  before.  She 
was  Mrs.  Marten's  niece,  and  had  come  from 
the  West  to  live  with  her  aunt  at  just  about 
the  time  that  the  success  of  Thornton's  book 
made  him  think  of  marriage. 

She  was  pretty  and  bright  and  expansive 
in  a  Western  way,  and  when  Thornton  met 
her  at  one  of  the  few  afternoon  teas  that 
he  ever  attended  he  fell  in  love  with  her. 
When  he  learned  that  she  was  the  niece  of 
his  lifelong  friend,  Mrs.  Marten,  he  sud- 
denly discovered  various  reasons  why  he 
should  call  at  the  Marten  house  once  or  twice 
a  week. 

But  a  strange  habit  he  had  of  putting  off 


254    The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

delightful  moments  in  order  to  enjoy  antic- 
ipation to  its  fullest  extent  had  caused  him 
to  refrain  from  disclosing  the  state  of  his 
heart  to  Miss  Badeau,  and  so  that  young 
woman,  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  him 
even  before  she  knew  that  he  was  the  gifted 
author  of  "Thoughts  for  Non-Thinkers," 
often  wished  to  herself  that  she  could  in 
some  way  give  him  a  hint  of  the  state  of  her 
heart. 

Orville  received  Mrs.  Marten's  letter  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  its  contents  made  him 
plan  a  schedule  for  the  next  evening's  run- 
ning. No  power  on  earth  could  keep  him 
away  from  that  dinner,  and  he  immediately 
sent  a  telegram  of  regret  to  the  Bell-wether 
of  the  Wolves'  Club,  although  he  had  been 
anticipating  the  Christmas  gorge  for  a 
month. 

He  also  sent  a  messenger  with  a  note  of 
acceptance  to  Mrs.  Marten.  .  .  . 

Then  he  joined  the  crowd  of  persons  who 
always  wait  until  Christmas  Eve  before  buy- 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down    255 

ing  the  presents  that  stern  and  unpleasant 
duty  makes  it  necessary  to  get. 

It  would  impart  a  characteristic  Christmas 
flavor  if  it  were  possible  to  cover  the  ground 
with  snow,  and  to  make  the  air  merry  with 
the  sound  of  flashing  belts  of  silvery  sleigh- 
bells  on  prancing  horses;  but  although 
Christmases  in  stories  are  always  snowy  and 
frosty,  and  sparkling  with  ice-crystals, 
Christmases  in  real  life  are  apt  to  be  damp 
and  humid.  Let  us  be  thankful  that  this 
Christmas  was  merely  such  a  one  as  would 
not  give  a  ghost  of  a  reason  for  a  trip  to 
Florida.  The  mercury  stood  at  58,  and  even 
light  overcoats  were  not  things  to  be  put  on 
without  thought. 

Orville  knew  what  he  wished  to  get  and 
where  it  was  sold,  and  so  he  had  an  advan- 
tage over  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  of 
the  anxious-looking  shoppers  who  were 
scuttling  from  shop  to  shop,  burdened  with 
bundles,  and  making  the  evening  the  worst 
in  the  year  for  tired  sales-girls  and  -men. 


256   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

Orville's  present  was  not  exactly  Christ- 
massy, but  he  hoped  that  Miss  Badeau  would 
like  it,  and  it  was  certainly  the  finest  one 
on  the  velvet  tray.  Orville,  it  will  be  seen, 
was  of  a  sanguine  disposition. 

He  did  not  hang  up  his  stocking;  he  had 
not  done  that  for  several  years;  but  he  did 
dream  that  Santa  Claus  brought  him  a  beau- 
tiful doll  from  Paris,  and  just  as  he  was  say- 
ing, "  There  must  be  some  mistake/'  the 
doll  turned  into  Miss  Badeau  and  said: 
"  No,  I'm  for  you.  Merry  Christmas ! " 
Then  he  woke  up  and  thought  how  foolish 
and  yet  how  fascinating  dreams  are. 

Christmas  morning  was  spent  in  polish- 
ing up  an  old  essay  on  "  The  Value  of  the 
Summer  as  an  Invigorator."  It  had  long 
been  a  habit  of  his  to  work  over  old  stuff  on 
his  holidays,  and  if  he  was  about  to  marry 
he  would  need  to  sell  everything  he  had — 
of  a  literary-marketable  nature.  But  this 
morning  a  vision  of  a  lovely  girl  who  on 
the  morrow  was  going  to  sail  thousands  of 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down    257 


miles  away  came  between  him  and  the  page, 
and  at  last  he  tossed  the  manuscript  into  a 
drawer  and  went  out  for  a  walk. 

It  was  the  draggiest  Christmas  he  had 
ever  known,  and  the  warmest.  He  dropped 
in  at  the  club,  but  there  was  hardly  anyone 
there;  still,  he  did  manage  to  play  a  few 
games  of  billiards,  and  at  last  the  clock  an- 
nounced that  it  was  time  to  go  home  and 
dress  for  the  Christmas  dinner. 

It  was  half-past  five  when  he  left  the  club. 
It  was  twenty  minutes  to  six  when  he  slipped 
on  a  piece  of  orange-peel  and  measured  his 
length  on  the  sidewalk.  He  was  able  to  rise 
and  hobble  up  the  steps  on  one  foot,  but  the 
hall-boy  had  to  help  him  to  the  elevator  and 
thence  to  his  room.  He  dropped  upon  his 
bed,  feeling  white  about  the  gills. 

Orville  was  a  most  methodical  man.  He 
planned  his  doings  days  ahead  and  seldom 
changed  his  schedule.  But  it  seemed  likely 
that  unless  he  was  built  of  sterner  stuff  than 
most  of  the  machines  called  men,  he  would 


258   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

not  run  out  of  the  round-house  to-night. 
His  fall  had  given  his  foot  a  nasty  wrench. 

Some  engineers,  to  change  the  simile, 
would  have  argued  that  the  engine  was  off 
the  track,  and  that  therefore  the  train  was 
not  in  running  condition;  but  Orville  merely 
changed  engines.  His  own  steam  having 
been  cut  off,  he  ordered  an  automobile  for 
twenty  minutes  to  seven;  and  after  he  had 
bathed  and  bandaged  his  ankle  he  deter- 
mined, with  a  grit  worthy  of  the  cause  that 
brought  it  forth,  to  attend  that  dinner  even 
if  he  paid  for  it  in  the  hospital,  with  An- 
nette as  special  nurse. 

Old  Mr.  Nickerson,  who  lived  across  the 
hall,  had  heard  of  his  misfortune,  and  called 
to  proffer  his  services. 

"  Shall  I  help  you  get  to  bed?  "  said  he. 

"  I  am  not  due  in  bed,  Mr.  Nickerson,  for 
many  hours;  but  if  you  will  give  me  a  few 
fingers  o<f  your  excellent  old  Scotch,  with  the 
bouquet  of  smoked  herring,  I  will  go  on 
dressing  for  dinner." 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   259 

"  Dear  boy,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  al- 
most tearfully,  "  it  is  impossible  for  you  to 
venture  on  your  foot  with  such  a  sprain.  It 
is  badly  swollen.'* 

"  Mr.  Nickerson,  my  heart  has  received  a 
worse  wrench  than  my  foot  has,  therefore  I 
go  out  to  dine."  At  sound  of  which  enig- 
matical declaration  Mr.  Nickerson  hurried 
off  for  the  old  Scotch,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
Orville's  faintness  had  passed  off,  and  with 
help  from  the  amiable  old  man  he  got  into 
his  evening  clothes — with  the  exception  of 
his  left  foot,  which  was  incased  in  a  flowered 
slipper  of  sunset  red. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Mr.  Nickerson,  I'm  a 
thousand  times  obliged  to  you,  and  if  I  can 
get  you  to  help  me  hop  downstairs  I  will 
wait  for  the  automobile  on  the  front  stoop." 
(Orville  had  been  born  in  Brooklyn,  where 
they  still  have  "stoops.")  "  I'm  on  time 
so  far." 

But  if  Orville  was  on  time,  the  automo- 
bile was  not,  the  driver  not  being  a  meth- 


260   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

odical  man;  and  when  it  did  come,  it  was  all 
the  motorman  could  do  to  stop  it.  It  seemed 
restive. 

"  You  ought  to  shut  off  on  the  oats,"  said 
Orville  gayly,  from  his  seat  on  the  lowest 
step  of  the  "  stoop." 

The  picture  of  a  gentleman  in  immaculate 
evening  clothes,  with  the  exception  of  a 
somewhat  rococo  carpet  slipper,  seemed  to 
amuse  some  street  children  who  were  pass- 
ing. If  they  could  have  followed  the 
"  auto "  they  would  have  been  even  more 
diverted,  but  such  was  not  to  be  their  for- 
tune. Mr.  Nickerson  helped  his  friend  into 
the  vehicle,  and  the  driver  started  at  a  lively 
rate  for  Fifth  Avenue. 

Orville  lived  in  Seventeenth  Street,  near 
Fifth  Avenue;  Mrs.  Marten  lived  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  near  Fortieth  Street.  Thirty- 
eighth  Street  and  Thirty-ninth  Street  were 
reached  and  passed  without  further  incident 
than  the  fact  that  Orville's  ankle  pained  him 
almost  beyond  the  bearing -point;  but,  as  it 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down    261 

is  not  the  history  of  a  sprained  ankle  that  I 
am  writing,  if  the  vehicle  had  stopped  at 
Mrs.  Marten's  my  pen  would  not  have  been 
set  to  paper. 

But  the  motor-wagon  did  not  even 
pause.  It  kept  on  as  if  the  Harlem  River 
were  to  be  its  next  stop. 

Orville  had  stated  the  number  of  his  des- 
tination with  distinctness,  and  he  now  rang 
the  annunciator  and  asked  the  driver  why 
he  did  not  stop. 

Calmly,  in  the  even  tones  that  clear- 
headed persons  use  when  they  wish  to  in- 
spire confidence,  the  chauffeur  said :  "  Don't 
be  alarmed,  sir,  but  I  can't  stop.  There's 
something  out  of  kilter,  and  I  may  have  to 
run  some  time  before  I  can  get  the  hang  of 
it.  There's  no  danger  as  long  as  I  can 
steer." 

"  Can't  you  slacken  up  in  front  of  the 
house,  so  that  I  can  jump  ?  " 

"With  that  foot,  sir?  Impossible,  and, 
anyway,  I  can't  slacken  up.  I  think  we'll 


262   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

stop  soon.  I  don't  know  when  it  was 
charged,  but  a  gentleman  had  it  before  I  was 
sent  out  with  it.  It  won't  be  long,  I  think. 
I'll  run  around  the  block,  and  maybe  I  can 
stop  the  next  time." 

Orville  groaned  for  a  twofold  reason: 
his  ankle  was  jumping  with  pain,  and  he 
would  lose  the  pleasure  of  taking  Miss 
Badeau  in  to  dinner,  for  it  was  a  minute 
past  seven. 

He  sat  and  gazed  at  his  carpet  slipper, 
and  thought  of  the  daintily  shod  feet  of  the 
adorable  Annette,  as  the  horseless  carriage 
wound  around  the  block.  As  they  ap- 
proached the  house  again,  Orville  imagined 
that  they  were  slackening  up,  and  he 
opened  the  door  to  be  ready.  It  was  now 
three  minutes  past  seven,  and  dinner  had  be- 
gun beyond  a  doubt.  The  driver  saw  the 
door  swing  open,  and  said:  "Don't  jump, 
sir.  I  can't  stop  yet.  I'm  afraid  there's  a 
good  deal  of  run  in  the  machine." 

Orville  looked  up  at  the  brownstone  front 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down    263 

of  the  house  with  an  agonized  stare,  as  if  he 
would  pull  Mrs.  Marten  to  the  window  by 
the  power  of  his  eyes.  But  Mrs.  Marten 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  pressing  her  nose 
against  the  pane  in  an  anxious  search  for 
tardy  guests.  In  fact,  it  may  be  asserted 
with  confidence  that  it  is  not  a  Fifth  Avenue 
custom. 

At  that  moment  the  puree  was  being 
served  to  Mrs.  Marten's  guests,  and  to  pretty 
Annette  Badeau,  who  really  looked  discon- 
solate with  the  vacant  chair  beside  her. 

"  Something  has  happened  to  Orville," 
said  Mrs.  Marten,  looking  over  her  shoulder 
toward  the  hall  door,  "  for  he  is  punctual- 
ity itself." 

Mr.  Joe  Burton  was  a  short,  red-faced 
little  man,  with  black  mutton-chop  whiskers 
of  the  style  of  '76,  and  a  way  of  looking  in 
the  most  cheerful  manner  upon  the  dark 
side  of  things.  "  Dessay  he's  been  run 
over,"  said  he  choppily.  "  Wonder  anyone 
escapes.  Steam-,  gasoline-,  electric-,  horse- 


264   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

flesh-,  man-propelled  juggernauts.  Ought 
to  be  prohibited." 

Annette  could  not  repress  a  shudder. 
Her  aunt  saw  it,  and  said :  "  Orville  will 
never  be  run  over.  He's  too  wide-awake. 
But  it  is  very  singular." 

"  He  may  have  been  detained  by  an  order 
for  a  story,"  said  Mr.  Marten,  also  with  the 
amiable  purpose  of  consoling  Annette.  For 
both  of  the  Martens  knew  how  she  felt  to- 
ward Mr.  Thornton. 

"  Maybe  he's  lying  on  the  front  sidewalk, 
hit  by  a  sign  or  bitten  by  a  dog.  Dogs  ought 
not  to  be  allowed  in  the  city;  they  only  add 
to  the  dangers  of  metropolitan  existence," 
jerked  out  Mr.  Burton,  in  blithe  tones, 
totally  unaware  that  his  remarks  might 
worry  Annette. 

"  Dear  me !  I  wish  you'd  send  someone  out 
to  see,  Aunt  Henrietta." 

"  Nonsense,  Annette.  Mr.  Burton  is  al- 
ways an  alarmist.  But,  Marie,  you  might 
step  to  the  front  door  and  look  down  the 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   265 

avenue.  Mr.  Thornton  is  always  so  punc- 
tual that  it  is  peculiar." 

Marie  went  to  the  front  door  and  looked 
down  the  street  just  as  Thornton,  gesticu- 
lating wildly,  disappeared  around  the  corner 
of  Fortieth  Street. 

"  Oh,  why  didn't  she  come  sooner!  "  said 
he  aloud  to  himself.  "  At  least  they  would 
know  why  I'm  late.  And  she'll  be  gone  be- 
fore I  come  round  again.  Was  there  ever 
such  luck?  Oh  for  a  good  old  horse  that 
could  stop,  a  dear  old  nag  tfiat  would  pause 
and  not  go  round  and  round  like  a  blamed 
carrousel !  Say,  driver,  isn't  there  any  way 
of  stopping  this  cursed  thing?  Can't  you 
run  it  into  a  fence  or  a  house?  I'll  take  the 
risk." 

"  But  I  won't,  sir.  These  automobiles  are 
very  powerful,  and  one  of  them  turned  over 
a  newsstand  not  long  since  and  upset  the 
stove  in  it,  and  nearly  burned  up  the  news- 
man. But  there's  a  plenty  of  time  for  it  to 
stop.  I  don't  have  to  hurry  back." 


266   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

"  That's  lucky,"  said  Orville.  "  I  thought 
maybe  you'd  have  to  leave  me  alone  with 
the  thing.  But,  say,  she  may  run  all  night. 
Here  I  am  due  at  a  dinner.  I'm  tired  of 
riding.  This  is  no  way  to  spend  Christmas. 
Slacken  up,  and  I'll  jump  when  I  get  around 
there  again." 

"  I  tell  you  I  can't  slacken  up,  and  she's 
going  ten  miles  an  hour.  You'll  break  your 
leg  if  you  jump,  and  then  where'll  you  be?  " 

"  I  might  be  on  their  sidewalk,  and  then 
you  could  ring  their  bell,  and  they'd  take 
me  in." 

"  And  have  you  suing  the  company  for 
damages?  Oh,  no,  sir.  I'm  sorry,  but  it 
can't  be  helped.  The  company  won't  charge 
you  for  the  extra  time." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  will,"  said  Thorn- 
ton, savagely,  the  more  so  as  his  foot  gave  a 
twinge  of  pain  just  then. 

"  There  was  no  one  in  sight,  ma'am,"  said 
Marie  when  she  returned. 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   267 

"  Probably  he  had  an  order  for  a  story 
and  got  absorbed  in  it  and  forgot  us,"  said 
Mr.  Marten;  but  this  conjecture  did  not 
seem  to  suit  Annette,  for  it  did  not  fit  what 
she  knew  of  his  character. 

"  Possibly  he  was  dropped  in  an  elevator," 
said  Mr.  Burton.  "  Strain  on  elevators, 
particularly  these  electrical  ones,  is  tre- 
mendous. Some  of  'em  have  got  to  drop. 
And  a  dropping  elevator  is  no  respecter  of 
persons.  You  and  I  may  be  in  one  when  it 
drops.  Probably  he  was.  Sure,  I  hope  not, 
but  as  he  is  known  to  be  the  soul  of  punctual- 
ity, we  must  put  forward  some  accident  to 
account  for  his  lateness.  People  aren't  al- 
ways killed  in  elevator  accidents.  Are  they, 
my  dear  ?  " 

11  Mr.  Burton,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  wish  you 
would  give  your  morbid  thoughts  a  rest. 
Don't  you  see  that  Annette  is  sensitive?  " 

"  Sensitive — with  someone  dying  every 
minute?  It's  merely  because  she  happens  to 
know  Orville  that  his  death  would  be  un- 


268  The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

pleasant.  If  a  man  in  the  Klondike  were  to 
read  of  it  in  the  paper  he  wouldn't  remem- 
ber it  five  minutes.  But  I  don't  say  he  was  in 
an  elevator.  Maybe  someone  sent  him  an 
infernal  machine  for  a  Christmas  present. 
May  have  been  blown  up  in  a  manhole  or 
jumped  from  his  window  to  avoid  flames. 
Why,  there  are  a  million  ways  to  account 
for  his  absence." 

Marie  had  opened  the  parlor  windows  a 
moment  before,  as  the  house  was  warm,  and 
now  there  came  the  humming  of  a  rapidly 
moving  automobile.  Mingled  with  it  they 
heard  distinctly,  although  faintly,  "  Mr. 
Marten,  here  I  go." 

It  gave  them  all  an  uncanny  feeling.  The 
fish  was  left  untouched,  and  for  a  moment 
silence  reigned.  Then  Mr.  Marten  sprang 
from  the  table  and  ran  to  the  front  door. 
He  got  there  just  in  time  to  see  an  auto- 
mobile dashing  around  a  corner  and  to  hear 
a  distinctly  articulated  imprecation  in  the 
well-known  voice  of  Orville  Thornton. 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   269 

In  evening  clothes  and  bareheaded,  Mr. 
Marten  ran  to  Fortieth  Street,  and  saw  the 
vehicle  approaching  Sixth  Avenue,  its  oc- 
cupant still  hurling  strong  language  upon 
the  evening  air.  Mr.  Marten  is  something 
of  a  sprinter,  although  he  has  passed  the  fifty 
mark,  and  he  resolved  to  solve  the  mystery. 
But  before  he  had  covered  a  third  of  the 
block  in  Fortieth  Street  he  saw  that  he  could 
not  hope  to  overtake  the  runaway  automo- 
bile, so  he  turned  and  ran  back  to  the  house, 
rightly  surmising  that  the  driver  would 
circle  the  block. 

When  he  reached  his  own  doorstep,  badly 
winded,  he  saw  the  automobile  coming  full 
tilt  up  the  avenue  from  Thirty-ninth  Street. 

The  rest  of  the  diners  were  on  the  steps. 
"  I  think  he's  coming,"  he  panted.  "  The 
driver  must  be  intoxicated." 

A  moment  later  they  were  treated  to  the 
spectacle  of  Orville,  still  hurling  impreca- 
tions as  he  wildly  gesticulated  with  both 
arms.  Several  boys  were  trying  to  keep  up 


270  The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

with  the  vehicle,  but  the  pace  was  too  swift. 
No  policeman  had  yet  discovered  its  rotary 
course. 

As  Orville  came  near  the  Marten  mansion 
he  cried  "  Ah-h-h !  "  in  the  relieved  tones  of 
one  who  has  been  falling  for  half  an  hour, 
and  at  last  sees  ground  in  sight. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  shouted  Mr.  Mar- 
ten wonderingly,  as  the  carriage,  instead  of 
stopping,  sped  'along  the  roadway. 

"  Sprained  foot.  Can't  walk.  Auto  out 
of  order.  Can't  stop.  Good-by  till  I  come 
round  again.  Awful  hungry.  Merry 
Christmas!" 

"  Ah  ha !  "  said  Joe  Burton.  "  I  told  you 
that  it  was  an  accident.  Sprained  his  foot 
and  lost  power  over  vehicle.  I  don't  see  the 
connection,  but  let  us  be  thankful  that  he 
isn't  under  the  wheels,  with  a  broken  neck, 
or  winding  round  and  round  the  axle." 

"  But  what's  to  be  done  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
ten. "  He  says  he's  hungry." 

"  Tell  you  what!  "  said  Mr.  Burton,  in  his 


I   THFNK   HE'S   COMING!  "—P.    269. 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   271 

explosive  way.  "  Put  some  food  on  a  plate, 
and  when  the  carriage  comes  round  again 
I'll  jump  aboard,  and  he  can  eat  as  he 
travels." 

"  He  loves  puree  of  celery,"  said  Mrs. 
Marten. 

"  Very  well.  Put  some  in  a  clean  lard- 
pail  or  a  milk-pail.  Little  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary, but  so  is  the  accident,  and  he  can't  help 
his  hunger.  Hunger  is  no  disgrace.  I 
didn't  think  he'd  ever  eat  soup  again,  to  tell 
the  truth.  I  was  making  up  my  mind 
whether  a  wreath  or  a  harp  would  be  better." 

"  Oh,  you  are  so  morbid,  Mr.  Burton," 
said  his  wife,  while  Mrs.  Marten  told  the 
maid  to  get  a  pail  and  put  some  puree  into 
it. 

When  Thornton  came  around  again  he 
met  Mr.  Marten  near  Thirty-ninth  Street. 

"  Open  the  door,.  Orville,  and  Joe  Burton 
will  get  aboard  with  some  soup.  You  must 
be  starved." 

"  There's  nothing  like  exercise  for  get- 


272   The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

ting  up  an  appetite.  I'll  be  ready  for  Bur- 
ton," said  Orville.  "  Awfully  sorry  I  can't 
stop  and  talk;  but  I'll  see  you  again  in  a 
minute  or  two." 

He  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke,  and  then, 
to  the  great  delight  of  at  least  a  score  of 
people  who  had  realized  that  the  automobile 
was  running  away,  the  rubicund  and  stout 
Joe  Burton,  a  pail  of  puree  in  one  hand  and 
some  table  cutlery  and  silverware  and  a  nap- 
kin in  the  other,  made  a  dash  at  the  vehicle, 
and  with  help  from  Orville  effected  an  en- 
trance. 

"  Merry  Christmas !  "  said  Orville. 

"  Merry  Christmas !  Awfully  sorry,  old 
man,  but  it  might  be  worse.  Better  drink  it 
out  of  the  pail.  They  gave  me  a  knife  and 
fork,  but  they  neglected  to  put  in  a  spoon  or 
a  dish.  I  thought  that  you  were  probably 
killed,  but  I  never  imagined  this.  Miss 
Badeau  was  terribly  worked  up.  I  think 
that  she  had  decided  on  white  carnations. 
Nice  girl.  You  could  easily  jump,  old  man, 


PH 

M 

W 

«      A 

o   ^ 

o   ^ 

^5  J 
i— i 

>«  w 
P5  J 
H 


g > 

c/5 
>1 
O 
PQ 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   273 

if  you  hadn't  sprained  your  foot.  Hurt 
much?" 

"  Like  the  devil ;  but  I'm  glad  it  worried 
Miss  Badeau.  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  But 
you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know/'  said  Burton,  with  a  soci- 
able smile.  "  Mrs.  Marten  told  me.  Nice 
girl.  Let  her  in  next  time.  Unusual  thing, 
you  know.  People  are  very  apt  to  jump 
from  a  runaway  vehicle,  but  it  seldom  takes 
up  passengers.  Let  her  get  in,  and  you  can 
explain  matters  to  her.  You  see,  she  sails 
early  in  the  morning,  and  you  haven't  much 
time.  You  can  tell  her  what  a  nice  fellow 
you  are,  you  know,  and  I'm  sure  you'll  have 
Mrs.  Marten's  blessing.  Here's  where  I  get 
out." 

With  an  agility  admirable  in  one  of  his 
stoutness,  Mr.  Burton  leaped  to  the  street 
and  ran  up  the  steps  to  speak  to  Miss 
Badeau.  Orville  could  see  her  blush,  but 
there  was  no  time  for  her  to  become  a  pas- 
senger that  trip,  and  the  young  man  once 


274  The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

more  made  the  circuit  of  the  block,  quite 
alone,  but  strangely  happy.  He  had  never 
ridden  with  Annette,  except  once  on  the 
elevated  road,  and  then  both  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Marten  were  of  the  company. 

Round  sped  the  motor,  and  when  the  Mar- 
tens' appeared  in  sight,  Annette  was  on  the 
sidewalk  with  a  covered  dish  in  her  hand 
and  a  look  of  excited  expectancy  on  her  face 
that  added  a  hundredfold  to  its  charms. 

"  Here  you  are — only  ten  cents  a  ride. 
Merry  Christmas !  "  shouted  Orville  gayly, 
and  leaned  half  out  of  the  automobile  to 
catch  her.  It  was  a  daring,  almost  an  im- 
possible jump,  yet  Annette  made  it  without 
accident,  and,  flushed  and  excited,  sat  down 
in  front  of  Mr.  Thornton  without  spilling 
her  burden,  which  proved  to  be  sweetbreads. 

"  Miss  Badeau — Annette,  I  hadn't  ex- 
pected it  to  turn  out  this  way,  but  of  course 
your  aunt  doesn't  care,  or  she  wouldn't  have 
let  you  come.  We're  really  in  no  danger. 
This  driver  has  had  more  experience  dodg- 


The  Automobile  Ran  Down   275 

ing-  teams  in  this  last  hour  than  he'd  get  in 
an  ordinary  year.  They  tell  me  you're  going 
to  Europe  early  to-morrow,  to  leave  all  your 
friends.  Now,  I've  something  very  impor- 
tant to  say  to  you  before  you  go.  No, 
thanks,  I  don't  want  anything  more.  That 
puree  was  very  filling.  I've  sprained  my 
ankle,  and  I  need  to  be  very  quiet  for  a  week 
or  two,  perhaps  until  this  machine  runs 
down,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  would 
you " 

Orville  hesitated,  and  Annette  blushed 
sweetly.  She  set  the  sweetbreads  down 
upon  the  seat  beside  her.  Orville  had  never 
looked  so  handsome  before  to  her  eyes. 

He  hesitated.     "  Go  on,"  said  she. 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  go  to  Paris  on 
a  bridal  trip?" 

Annette's  answer  was  drowned  in  the 
hurrah  of  the  driver  as  the  automobile,  grad- 
ually slackening,  came  to  a  full  stop  in  front 
of  the  Martens'. 

But  Orville  read  her  lips,  and  as  he  handed 


276  The  Automobile  Ran  Down 

his  untouched  sweetbreads  to  Mrs,  Burton, 
and  his  sweetheart  to  her  uncle,  his  face 
wore  a  seraphically  happy  expression;  and 
when  Mr.  Marten  and  the  driver  helped  him 
up  the  steps  at  precisely  eight  o'clock,  An- 
nette's hand  sought  his,  and  it  was  a  jolly 
party  that  sat  down  to  a  big  though  some- 
what dried-up  Rhode  Island  turkey. 

"  Marriage  also  is  an  accident,"  said  Mr. 
Burton. 


Veritable  Quidors 

I  WAS  a  stranger  in  that  part  of  the 
country  and  yet  I  had  managed  to  have 
extra-  good  luck  at  both  shooting  and 
fishing,  and  that  without  a  guide.  I  had 
shipped  my  spoils  to  Boston  and  was  walk- 
ing to  Panscot  in  order  to  see  what  was  said 
to  be  one  of  the  best  examples  of  ecclesiasti- 
cal architecture  of  the  Colonial  type  to  be 
found  in  New  England. 

Thanksgiving  Day  was  but  a  few  days  dis- 
tant, and  the  air  was  redolent  of  autumnal 
spices.  A  more  than  ordinarily  moist  sum- 
mer had  kept  many  of  the  trees  in  full  leaf- 
age, and  maples  and  hickories  looked  proud 
to  be  flaunting  their  red  and  yellow  banners 
so  late  in  November. 

My  way,  which  had  run  along  a  wood 
road,  suddenly  opened  upon  a  highway  in 

277 


278          Veritable  Quidors 

good  repair  for  that  section  of  the  country, 
and  yet  the  tufts  of  grass  between  the  ruts 
gave  evidence  that  it  was  not  traveled  over- 
much. My  chance  of  obtaining  a  lift  to 
Panscot  was  not  a  good  one. 

I  consulted  my  pocket  compass  and  turned 
to  the  right,  breaking  into  a  long  stride  that 
I  might  reach  my  journey's  end  before  night- 
fall. 

As  I  walked  I  heard  the  crunch  of  heavy 
wheels  behind  me,  and,  looking  back,  I  saw 
an  old-fashioned  and  very  dilapidated  omni- 
bus lumbering  down  upon  me.  It  was  drawn 
by  two  "  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bays  "  and 
was  driven  by  Michael  Angelo's  Moses.  Ah, 
but  he  was  a  patriarchal  fellow,  and  looked 
like  a  leader  in  Israel,  and  yet  he  was  Yankee 
clear  through. 

As  he  came  alongside  he  reined  up  and 
said,  "  Going  to  Panscot?  " 

"  If  I  don't  get  lost,"  said  I. 

"  I  can  take  you  there  for  a  half  a  dollar," 
said  he,  and  then  added  in  an  apologetic 


Veritable  Quidors          279 

tone :  "  Y'  see,  this  is  reg'ler  stage  rowte, 
or  I'd  carry  ye  fer  nuthin'." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  it  would  pay  if  you 
don't  have  any  more  passengers  than  you 
have  to-day,"  said  I,  glancing  at  the  empty 
'bus  and  then  climbing  up  alongside  the 
driver.  It  is  better  to  ride  with  a  companion 
than  to  walk  alone. 

He  covered  my  legs  with  an  ancient  horse- 
blanket,  and  as  he  clucked  to  the  horses  he 
said,  "  It  don't  pay.  Fact  is,  you  can  tell 
your  grandchildren,  ef  you  ever  git  as  far  's 
that,  that  you  rode  on  the  last  trip  of  the 
Doddtown  an'  Panscot  stage.  That  darned 
new  railroad  has  run  me  out  of  a  living  at 
seventy- four  years  of  age." 

I  expressed  interest  in  his  bit  of  news,  and 
encouraged  him  to  go  on,  and  after  cutting 
off  a  generous  slice  of  Virgin  Leaf  and  re- 
marking that  he  chewed  tobacco  for  the 
"  teethache,"  he  told  me  his  history,  which 
was  mournful  enough. 

"  Ef  Colonel  Shaw  was  alive  to-day  I'd 


280          Veritable  Quidors 

be  retired  on  a  pension  jes'  as  soon  as  they 
wound  up  the  affairs  of  the  company,  but  the 
Colonel  died  a  couple  of  years  ago,  an*  his 
pardner,  Lemuel  Dan'elson,  is  business  clean 
through,  an'  when  he  hands  me  my  eight 
dollars  endin'  up  this  week,  he'll  walk  off 
without  sayin'  a  word,  jes'  as  ef  I  hadn't 
drove  on  this  rowte  fer  twenty-five  years, 
an'  drove  this  very  stage  fer  twenty.  After 
I  get  my  eight  dollars  I'll  drive  the  stage 
down  to  my  house,  an'  I'll  tell  Rhody — she's 
my  wife — thet  she  can  have  a  noo  henhouse 
on  wheels,  an'  then  I'll  turn  the  hosses  out  in 
the  lot,  an*  my  life-work  '11  be  done,  an' 
nuthin'  but  the  stage  an'  hosses  to  show 
fer  't." 

"  How  do  you  happen  to  own  the  stage 
and  the  horses?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  Lemuel  Dan'elson,  he  owed  me  a 
month's  wages  about  six  months  ago,  an' 
fin'ly  he  says,  says  he,  *  You  can  have  the 
hosses  an*  the  stage  ef  you'll  give  me  five 
dollars  to  boot,  an'  we'll  call  it  square.' 


Veritable  Quidors          281 

Y'  see,  the  bosses  aint  wuth  five  dollars 
apiece,  stric'ly  speakin',  an'  I  knoo  the  stage 
wouldn't  hold  out  many  centuries  more,  but  I 
took  him  up,  fer  I  see  the  finish  of  every- 
thing then.  I  knoo  this  railroad  was  goin' 
through,  an'  I  wanted  the  stage  an'  the 
bosses  where  I  could  look  arter  them.  Stage 
remin's  me  of  the  '  One-Hoss  Shay  '  my  boy 
used  to  recite  when  he  was  at  school.  It  '11 
drop  to  pieces  all  to  once.  Ever  read  it? 
Writ  by  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  of  Bost'n." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  read  it,  and  that  as 
soon  as  I  had  seen  the  team,  they  had  re- 
minded me  of  the  deacon's  horse. 

He  fetched  a  hearty  laugh  and  clucked 
lovingly  to  the  superannuated  pair,  and  they 
pricked  up  their  ears  and  struck  a  four-mile- 
an-hour  gait  as  willingly  as  if  they  had  been 
colts. 

"  Stage  was  sightly  enough  when  the 
Colonel  brought  it  up  from  Noo  York.  My 
ol*  woman  has  always  kept  the  little  picters 
clean " 


282          Veritable  Quidors 

Here  he  paused  and  looked  down  through 
a  small  hole  in  the  front  end  of  the  stage, 
evidently  a  place  through  which  fares  were 
handed. 

"  By  gummy/'  said  he,  "  I  can't  turn  it 
into  a  henhouse  'less  I  take  out  them  picters. 
Whoa-p!" 

The  stage  came  to  a  sudden  stop  because 
the  right-hand  tug  had  snapped.  The  ven- 
erable driver  leaped  nimbly  off  the  seat  and, 
taking  from  his  pocket  an  awl  and  some 
pieces  of  copper  wire,  he  proceeded  to  couple 
the  two  parts  of  the  trace  quite  as  if  it  were 
an  ordinary  thing.  And  I  now  noticed  that 
it  was  an  ordinary  thing,  and  that  the  leather 
harness  was  reinforced  with  copper  wires  in 
a  dozen  places. 

While  he  was  tinkering  at  the  harness  I 
went  back  to  take  a  look  at  the  "  picters/' 
wondering  what  he  meant.  I  found  them 
to  be  panel  pictures  set  above  the  windows 
and  in  the  swinging  door  at  the  back.  There 
were  perhaps  a  dozen  or  more,  and  they 


Veritable  Quidors          283 

might  have  been  painted  by  some  disciple  of 
Watteau,  so  dainty  were  the  conceptions  and 
so  harmonious  and  decorative  the  coloring". 

"  Where  did  you  say  that  stage  came 
from?  "  said  I  after  we  had  taken  up  our 
journey  again. 

"  From  Noo  York.  Colonel  Shaw  went 
down  there  jes'  after  they  quit  runnin'  stages 
on  Broadway  an'  took  up  with  hoss  cars,  an' 
he  bought  two  of  'em,  but  the  other  one  got 
afoul  of  the  railroad  down  to  Turner's 
Crossing  about  five  years  ago,  an',  as  I  tole 
my  ol'  woman  at  the  time,  thet  was  the  las' 
stage  of  the  perceedings.  Warn't  more'n 
slivers  left.  Before  thet,  Jed.  Huit  used  to 
drive,  startin'  from  Doddtown  when  I  left 
Panscot,  an'  turn  about,  but  he  got  his  arm 
broke  an*  both  the  bosses  was  kilt,  an'  the 
Colonel,  he  retired  Jed.  on  a  pension,  an'  I 
was  left  to  do  the  hull  business.  Like  the 
picters?" 

"  Why,  they're  worth  framing,"  said  I. 
"They're  little  gems." 


284         Veritable  Quidors 

"  That's  what  lots  of  folks  has  said.  I  be- 
lieve they  call  'em  kromios.  Well,  we'll  put 
'em  in  the  parlor  jes'  ez  they  are." 

Here  the  old  fellow  suddenly  changed  the 
subject  by  looking  around  at  me  quizzically 
and  saying,  "  Don't  know  of  a  likely  place  in 
the  city  fer  a  young  feller  like  me  thet  aint 
afraid  of  work,  do  yer  ?  " 

I  hardly  knew  how  to  take  his  question, 
jocose  though  its  intention  was,  and  I  said 
nothing  for  a  moment.  Somehow  it  struck 
me  as  pathetic.  My  companion  was  silent, 
except  for  whistling  a  bar  of  the  "  Arkansaw 
Traveler  "  over  and  over  with  a  peculiar  in- 
drawing  and  exhaling  of  the  breath  that  sus- 
tained the  tone  indefinitely. 

"  Can't  you  farm  it?  "  said  I,  just  for  the 
sake  of  saying  something. 

"  Farms  aint  overproductive  in  winter 
hereabouts,"  said  he  dryly,  looking  at  me 
from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  "  No,  I 
can't  farm  it,  an*  I  have  only  a  couple  of 
acres,  anyhow.  Y*  see,  our  boy  went  West 


Veritable  Quidors          285 

to  make  his  fortune,  an'  I  sold  pretty  much 
all  the  land  I  had  to  git  him  started,  an'  he 
married  out  there,  but  somehow  the  money 
got  soaked  up  in  one  er  them  dry  times  in 
Kansas,  an'  his  wife  died,  leavin'  him  a  little 
tot,  an'  fin'ly  he  come  home  with  the  con- 
sumption, an'  ma  she  baby'd  him  an'  done 
what  she  could  with  herbs  an'  some  of  these 
here  paytent  med'cines,  but  it  warn't  no  use, 
an'  we  had  to  give  him  up.  An'  the  little 
girl  she  done  the  best  she  could  to  take  his 
place  in  his  ma's  heart,  but  of  course  it 
warn't  quite  the  same.  So  ther's  jes'  us 
three  an'  me  out  of  a  job  an' — Thanksgiv- 
ing nex'  week." 

I  ventured  to  say  that  he  had  not  much  to 
be  thankful  for,  but  he  laid  his  hand  on  my 
knee  impressively  and  said: 

"  Don't  say  that.  My  boy  is  better  off 
than  ef  he  was  sufferin'  here.  An'  Rhody, 
she  enjoys  better  health  than  most  people  at 
seventy-two,  an'  little  Becky,  she's  sunshine 
all  the  time,  wet  weather  or  dry.  Ef  I  had 


286         Veritable  Quidors 

some  money  laid  by  to  carry  her  along  until 
some  feller  gives  her  a  home  of  her  own  I 
wouldn't  fret  a  bit.  Anyhow,  'taint  ez  ef 
we  was  among  strangers.  We  know  every- 
one an'  everyone  knows  us.  Folks  around 
here  is  neighborly.  Aint  a  day  passes  thet 
someone  don't  run  in  to  chat  with  Rhody, 
an'  as  fer  the  money  part  of  it,  we  won't  be 
objec's  of  charity  ez  long  ez  I  can  use  an  ax 
or  a  saw.  We'll  have  plenty  to  thank  the 
Lord  fer  when  Thanksgivin'  comes  'round, 
an'  I  dare  say  He'll  raise  up  some  way  of 
pervidin'  fer  Becky  ef  we're  called  away 
while  she's  a  child.  But  I'll  miss  these  trips. 
By  gummy,  the  people  I've  met  an'  the  talks 
I've  had!  Why,  I  haint  never  be'n  more'n 
fifty  miles  from  Panscot,  but  I  feel's  if  I'd 
be'n  'round  the  world.  Swappin'  talk  is  a 
big  eddication.  I'll  miss  thet  part  of  it  the 
wust  way,  but  ther'  aint  no  law  ag'in  my 
hitchin'  up  my  team  ef  it  gits  extry  lonesome, 
an'  drivin'  over  the  road  on  my  own  hook  an' 
jes'  fer  the  company  I  may  pick  up.  Nex' 


Veritable  Quidors          287 

summer,  ef  the  Lord  spares  me,  I  cal'late  to 
do  thet  consider 'ble  jes'  fer  the  sake  of  seein' 
the  world." 

And  the  way  between  Panscot  and  Dodd- 
town  is  mostly  through  the  woods.  Yet  I 
doubt  not  that  Ezra.  Mathews  had  seen  more 
of  the  world  on  those  monotonous  trips  than 
many  a  globe  trotter  who  travels  with  eyes 
and  ears  hermetically  sealed. 

I  saw  the  end  of  the  Doddtown  and  Pan- 
scot stage  line;  I  was  in  at  the  death.  My 
fine  old  patriarch  drove  up  to  the  Globe 
Hotel  and  walked  into  the  office  with  me 
close  behind.  He  handed  in  one  dollar,  a 
passenger  having  ridden  from  Doddtown  to 
Hackettsville.  Then  he  said  to  the  thin- 
nosed  individual  with  a  mouth  like  a  bank 
slit,  and  who  proved  to  be  Lemuel  Daniel- 
son  :  "  Well,  Lemuel,  this  winds  up  the 
stage-coach  business  in  these  parts." 

"  Hmn,  hmn,"  said  Lemuel,  much  as  if 
Ezra  had  said  we  were  likely  to  have  a  fair 
day  to-morrow.  Then  he  put  the  dollar  into 


288          Veritable  Quidors 

the  drawer,  took  up  eight  dollars  which  he 
handed  to  the  driver  with  the  remark, 
"  Wages/'  and  picked  up  his  paper  which  he 
had  been  reading. 

We  walked  out  of  the  hotel,  but  just  as 
we  reached  the  veranda  Lemuel  called  out  in 
a  harsh,  penetrating  voice,  "  Come  back, 
Ezry." 

Ezra  went  back,  but  I  stayed  outside.  In 
a  minute  he  returned  with  a  queer  smile 
hovering  on  his  lips. 

"  Wanted  me  to  give  him  a  receipt  in  full 
for  all  my  wages  up  to  to-day.  Jes'  suppose 
the  world  was  full  of  his  kind " 

I  accompanied  Ezra  to  his  home,  in  the 
stage.  He  said  he  wanted  to  show  me  a 
letter  written  by  John  Hancock  to  his  grand- 
father. 

John  Hancock  must  have  kept  the  ink 
manufacturers  busy  furnishing  the  raw  ma- 
terial for  his  flamboyant  but  sturdy  signa- 
ture. There  it  was  at  the  end  of  a  letter,  and 
in  spite  of  the  lapse  of  time  there  seemed  to 


Veritable  Quidors          289 

be  ink  enough  in  it  to  carry  it  well  into  the 
next  century. 

But  more  interesting  to  me  than  the  auto- 
graph was  the  old  stage  driver's  little  grand- 
daughter, Becky.  She  met  her  grandpa  with 
a  kiss  of  welcome,  and  set  me  wondering  if 
the  old  man  would  be  able  to  keep  her  out  of 
the  poorhouse  until  she  should  be  of  age  to 
marry.  I  really  did  not  wonder  that  he  felt 
he  had  much  to  be  thankful  for  with  such  an 
incarnation  of  sunshine  in  the  house. 

I  also  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mrs. 
Mathews,  and  feeling  that  I  knew  her 
through  her  husband,  I  told  her  that  I  was 
sorry  that  the  old  stage  line  was  broken  up, 
and  then  I  regretted  that  I  had  mentioned 
the  subject,  for  her  eyes  filled. 

I  hate  to  see  people  cry,  and  so  it  would 
seem  did  Miss  Becky,  for  she  sprang  into  her 
grandmother's  lap  and  began  to  wipe  away 
the  tears  with  her  clean  little  apron.  Mrs. 
Mathews  excused  herself  on  the  plea  that  she 
thought  her  buscuits  were  burning,  and  the 


290          Veritable  Quidors 

two  went  into  the  kitchen,  while  Mr. 
Mathews  asked  me  to  come  out  and  he  would 
show  me  the  church  in  quest  of  which  I  had 
come  to  Panscot. 

He  had  left  the  team  at  his  hitching-post, 
and  he  now  drove  it  into  his  barn,  its  shed, 
where  he  unhitched  the  horses. 

"  There  now,"  said  he,  giving  each  one  a 
slap  on  the  flank,  "  take  your  vacation  same 
as  city  folks.  I'm  tired  of  drivin'  ye,  an'  we 
need  the  stage  fer  our  chickens." 

Whether  the  horses  understood  him  or 
not  is  open  to  question,  but  they  certainly 
understood  one  of  their  new  prerogatives, 
for  they  both  ambled  off  down  a  lane  to  a  bit 
of  meadow,  and  then  lying  down  they  tried 
to  roll  over,  and,  after  many  attempts,  one  of 
them  succeeded,  to  his  companion's  impotent 
envy. 

The  church  proved  to  be  all  my  fancy  had 
pictured  it,  and  I  hope  that  there  is  a  village 
protective  association  that  will  see  to  it  that 
no  one  defaces  it  with  modern  furbishings, 


Veritable  Quidors          291 

Its  gracefully  tapering  white  spire,  its  den- 
tals and  classic  floral  festoons,  are  reminders 
of  a  time  when  people  had  unconscious  good 
taste,  and  had  not  become  sophisticated 
enough  to  be  vulgar,  although,  to  be  sure, 
they  were  decades  away  from  that  era  of  a 
love  for  the  arts  that  is  now  upon  us. 

I  took  my  leave  of  the  kindly  old  man  with 
sincere  regret  and  went  back  to  the  Globe 
Hotel,  and  the  next  morning  I  took  an  early 
train  for  New  York,  to  which  I  was  going 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life  on  a  visit  to  a 
landscape  painter  who  has  found  out  how  to 
be  artistic  and  successful  at  the  same  time. 

I  supposed  that  the  story  of  the  old  stage 
driver  was  finished.  I  recognized  him  as  a 
picturesque  personage,  and  I  told  my  artist 
friend  all  about  him,  because,  although  he 
paints  landscapes,  he  is  interested  in  men. 
For  some  reason,  perhaps  because  I  thought 
that  an  "  arrived  "  painter  would  not  care  to 
hear  about  the  decorations  in  an  old  New 
York  omnibus,  I  did  not  say  anything  about 


292          Veritable  Quidors 

the  "  kromios,"  but  I  did  enlarge  upon  the 
old  man's  loss  of  occupation  and  the  pre- 
cariousness  of  the  future  of  the  sunny  little 
Becky,  and  Maltby  was  all  sympathy  at  once. 

"Pretty  country  up  there?"  said  he. 
"Paintable?" 

"  Beautiful.  Just  your  style,  too.  Do  you 
think  of  going  up  there  next  summer?  "  said 
I,  laughing,  for  I  knew  that  Maltby  reserved 
his  summers  for  the  South  of  France. 

"  I  was  thinking  that  perhaps  I  might  go 
up  there  and  board  with  the  old  chap." 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  that  they  are  too  old  to 
take  kindly  to  boarders." 

And  then  the  matter  dropped  and  we 
talked  of  other  things. 

After  dinner  we  were  sitting  in  Maltby's 
studio,  smoking.  He  was  talking  about 
early  American  artists  and  how  some  of 
them  who  were  in  advance  of  their  times 
died  unrecognized.  "  There's  one  old  chap 
who  would  have  been  a  court  favorite  in  the 
days  of  Louis  XIV.,  but  as  he  happened  to 


"  HE  HAD  TO  EKE  OUT  HIS  LIVING."— P.   293. 


Veritable  Quidors          293 

live  in  New  York  in  the  early  part  of  this 
century  he  had  to  eke  out  his  living  by  paint- 
ing panels  in  omnibuses  and  on  fire  engines. 
His  name  was  John  Quidor.  He  worked  on 
canvas,  too,  you  understand,  but  he  relied 
on  his  money  for  the  landlady  by  doing 
what  many  artists  would  have  considered 
plebeian  work.  Most  of  the  stages  were 
sold  and  broken  up  long  ago,  but  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  get  hold  of  one  picture  the 
other  day  that  I  wouldn't  part  with  for 
$500.  It's  worthy  of  most  of  the  old 
Dutch  genre  painters." 

I  don't  know  why  it  didn't  remind  me  of 
my  old  stage  driver's  "  kromios,"  but  I 
never  thought  a  thing  about  them  until 
Maltby  had  taken  me  into  his  bedroom  and 
had  showed  me  a  panel  of  some  village  chil- 
dren sliding  on  the  ice.  I  almost  yelled 
when  I  saw  it. 

"  Why,  man,  the  old  fellow  up  in  Maine 
has  a  dozen  of  those.  His  stage-coach 
came  from  New  York " 


294          Veritable  Quidors 

"  What !  "  cried  Maltby,  taking  my  hand 
in  his  in  his  earnestness.  "  Are  you  sure?  " 

"  Am  I  sure?  Of  course  I  am.  There's 
a  scene  in  a  park,  a  lady  feeding  her  deer, 
and  a  Maypole  dance,  and,  let  me  see, — and 
a  sleigh  ride  and  the  last  load  of  hay  and 
two  or  three  others,  some  of  them  illustrat- 
ing scenes  in  Irving's  sketches." 

"  Oh,  George!  "  said  Maltby,  "  carry  me 
home  to  die!  There's  a  picture  collector  in 
this  town  who  told  me  that  he  would  give 
his  eye  teeth  for  one  of  those  pictures.  If 
they  are  veritable  Quidors  that  old  man  up 
in  Maine  is  about  to  sit  down  in  a  tub  of 
butter.  I'll  sell  just  one  of  them  to  Prid- 
ham  at  a  good  price  and  I'll  keep  the  rest. 
Are  you  dead  sure  that  they  are  the  real 
thing?  When  can  we  go  up  there?  Does 
he  appreciate  their  value  ?  " 

Maltby  is  an  excitable  fellow,  and  he  was 
all  over  the  room  while  he  was  talking,  now 
looking  at  the  little  panel,  and  then  putting 
questions  to  me  like  shot  out  of  a  cannon. 


Veritable  Quidors          295 

I  was  willing1  to  stake  my  reputation  on 
the  fact  that  the  pictures  in  the  omnibus 
and  the  one  that  Maltby  had  were  by  the 
same  hand,  and  as  a  consequence  the  next 
evening's  express  into  Panscot  bore  the 
artist  and  myself.  .  .  . 

Maltby  had  been  looking  at  the  pictures 
by  the  light  of  a  candle,  and  we  were  now 
sitting  in  the  parlor,  and  in  the  doorway 
stood  the  little  granddaughter,  who  seemed 
to  be  afraid  to  enter  a  room  sacred  to  funer- 
als as  a  general  thing. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  two  grown 
men  come  all  the  way  up  here  to  look  at 
them  picters?  "  said  Ezra. 

"  Not  exactly  that,"  said  Maltby  slowly, 
"  I  want  to  buy  them.  How  much  are  they 
worth?" 

Mrs.  Mathews  was  of  the  party,  and  she 
fairly  hung  on  Ezra's  answer.  She  seemed 
to  have  a  keen  eye  for  business. 

"  Why,"  said  Ezra,  "  I  didn't  cal'late  to 
sell  'em.  I'm  kinder  fond  of  'em  myself.  If 


296         Veritable  Quidors 

they're  wuth  a  trip  up  here  to  you  I  guess 
they're  wuth  keepin' " 

"  Why,  Ezry,  aint  you  ashamed  of  your- 
self?" said  Mrs.  Mathews,  her  voice  trem- 
bling with  intensity.  "  We  aint  in  a  posi- 
tion to  refuse  this  gentleman's  offer  to  buy." 

"  No,  no,  so  we  haint,"  said  Ezra,  a  new 
light  breaking  on  him.  "  But,  mother,  I 
like  them  picters  an'  I  was  go'n'  to  have  'em 
sawed  out  an'  set  up  in  here." 

"Well,  what  are  they  worth?"  asked 
Maltby  in  a  hard,  businesslike  tone  that  sur- 
prised me. 

Ezra  looked  at  his  wife,  and  then  he 
looked  at  the  little  vision  in  the  doorway. 
"  Well,"  said  he  finally,  "  I  guess  ef  you've 
come  all  the  way  up  here  from  'York  they 
ought  to  be  wuth — they  ought  to  be  wuth 
t " 

Ezra  looked  appeal ingly  at  his  wife.  He 
was  plainly  going  to  say  "two  dollars 
apiece,"  but  I  saw  the  knotted  fingers  of  her 
right  hand  straighten  out,  and  he  said, 


Veritable  Quidors          297 

"They    ought    to    be    worth    five  dollars 

apiece." 

The  simplicity  of  the  old  couple  appealed 
to  me  and  I  hoped  that  the  low  figure  would 
awaken  Maltby's  usually  generous  instincts, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  overcome  by  his  rare 
chance  for  a  bargain. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  he  musingly. 
"  After  all,  they're  only  decorations  in  a  very 
old  stage-coach.  I  think  that  four  dollars 
and  a  half  apiece  would  be  a  better  figure. 
That  would  be  nearly  eighty  dollars  for  the 
lot." 

"  E — e — ighty  dollars!  "  said  Ezra,  suck- 
ing in  his  breath  with  evident  surprise  at  the 
grand  total. 

"Eighty  dollars!"  said  Mrs.  Mathews, 
setting  her  head  on  one  side  and  patting  her 
husband's  hand  affectionately. 

Then  Ezra  turned  to  me  and  said, 
"  Young  man,  I  guess  Thanksgivin'  Day 
will  be  a  time  of  extray  rejoicing  in  this 
fam'ly." 


298         Veritable  Quidors 

As  for  me  I  felt  like  denouncing  Maltby 
for  a  mean  cad. 

Luckily  I  kept  my  mouth  shut,  but  it  was 
hard  work.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  double 
the  amount  on  my  own  hook  and  let  my 
friend  know  of  it  when  we  had  returned  to 
New  York. 

Suddenly  Maltby  broke  into  a  hearty 
laugh. 

"  I  thought  that  Yankees  were  born  bar- 
gainers," said  he.  "  If  you'd  held  out  for 
five  I  should  have  given  it." 

This,  in  my  opinion,  was  adding  insult 
to  injury,  but  Maltby  seemed  to  enjoy  rub- 
bing it  in,  and  as  for  the  Mathewses,  they 
did  not  seem  to  realize  that  they  were  losing 
a  great  opportunity.  They  looked  at  each 
other  delightedly  and  murmured  "  eighty 
dollars  "  at  intervals. 

At  last  Maltby  rose  to  his  feet  and  said  as 
he  walked  toward  the  door,  "  I  just  wanted 
to  see  what  I  could  do  in  the  way  of  bar- 
gaining myself,  but  I'm  not  very  good  at  it." 


Veritable  Quidors          299 

Here  he  put  his  hands  on  little  Becky's  head 
and  the  child  nestled  up  to  him  in  a  way  I 
thought  he  did  not  deserve. 

He  went  on,  "Of  course  I  want  to  pay 
you  what  the  pictures  are  worth  to  me,  and 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  expect  to  get  all  my 
money  back.  I'll  pay  you  $200  apiece  for 
them,  or  $3200  for  the  lot." 

Then  I  had  such  a  revulsion  of  feeling 
that  I  had  to  leave  the  room.  I  went  out  and 
sat  down  in  the  stage,  and  by  the  moonlight 
I  could  see  the  sixteen  pictures  that  were 
to  make  the  next  Thursday  a  day  of  Thanks- 
giving indeed  for  Ezra  and  his  wife — and 
little  Becky. 


THE  END 


Books  of  Good  Cheer 

A  DUKE  AND  HIS  DOUBLE 

BY  EDWARD  S.  VAN  ZILE 

With  a  Frontispiece  by  FLORENCE  SCOVEL  SHINN 

3d  Impression.     i6mo,  75  cents 

A  tale  of  New  York  life  to-day  that  has  most  of  the  qualities 
of  a  rattling  comedy.  The  Duke's  Double  is  an  engaging 
mystery.  Staggering  as  the  Chicago  Flour  Merchant's  plan 
for  substituting  him  for  the  Duke  appears,  it  is  carried  out 
with  much  plausibility. 

N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser :  "Genial  farce-comedy, 
impossible  complications,  and  droll  cross-purposes  .  .  .  carried 
to  a  finish  with  such  an  air  of  assurance  that  only  when  the 
last  page  is  turned  does  the  reader  realize  how  preposterous 
it  all  was." 

N.  Y.  Times  Saturday  Review:  " Buoyant,  frolicking, 
even  boisterous  farce.  .  .  .  We  can  honestly  commend  Mr. 
Van  Zile's  book  as  good  summer  reading  ...  a  book  to  really 
read  when  one  is  in  no  mood  for  serious  thought." 

Philadelphia  Telegram  '  "A  most  amusing  social  extrav- 
aganza. ...  It  is  the  brilliant  wit  and  dash  and  daring  of 
the  thing  that  makes  it  go." 

CHEERFUL  AMERICANS 

BY  CHARLES  BATTELL  LOOMIS 
With  24  Illustrations  by  FLORENCE  SCOVEL  SHINN, 

FANNY  Y.  CORY,  and  others 
3d  Impression.      12010,  $1.25 

Contains  three  whimsical  automobile  stories,  the  "Amer- 
icans Abroad"  series  so  popular  in  the  Century r,  "The  Man 
of  Putty,"  "Too  Much  Boy,"  "The  Men  Who  Swapped 
Languages,"  "Veritable  Quidors,"  and  other  bright  tales. 
Those  clever  comediennes  with  the  pencil,  Mmes.  Shinn  and 
Cory,  fairly  divide  the  honors  with  the  author. 

N.  Y.  Times  Saturday  He-view  says  of  one  of  these  stories: 
"It  is  worthy  of  Frank  Stockton."  The  remainder  of  the 
long  review  cordially  recommends  the  book. 

Burlington  Haw  key  e  :  "There  are  seventeen  short  stories. 
It  is  hard  to  say  which  is  the  most  amusing." 

JV.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser:  "His  opera-bouffe  por- 
trayals of  American  types  are  distinctly  enjoyable.  Most  of 
us  have  met  them  or  their  next  of  kin  in  real  life.  .  .  .  The 
volume  is  abundantly  illustrated,  and  the  artists  have  admi- 
rably caught  the  spirit  of  the  author's  humor." 

Henry  Holt  and  Company,  New  York 

VIII   '03 


2d  Impression  of «'  A  delightful  book."— Lift. 


A  SUMMER  IN  NEW  YORK 

BY  EDWARD  W.  TOWNSEND 
Author  of  "  Chimmie  Fadden" 

WITH    ILLUSTRATED     CHAPTER-HEADS 

i2mo,  Ornamental,  $1.25 

The  author  has  chosen  the  characters  of  his  new  story  from 
a  higher  plane  of  life  than  "  Chimmie's." 

N.  Y.  Sun:  "A  love  story  connects  his  episodes,  but  the 
book  is  almost  a  guide-book  to  the  pleasures  New  York  affords 
as  a  summer  resort.  A  sprightly,  amusing  story,  with  all  the 
go  of  the  early  tales  that  made  his  reputation." 

N.  F.  Commercial  Advertise  :  "  The  sights  and  sounds  and 
smells  of  the  city  streets  in  August  have  all  found  their  way 
into  his  pages.  One  recognizes  the  odor  of  heated  asphalt,  the 
glitter  of  the  myriad  electric  lights  at  night,  the  peculiar  qual- 
ity of  midsummer  pleasure-seeking  in  the  metropolis,  with  its 
distinctive  atmosphere,  the  suggestion  of  an  alien  element  at 
theatre  and  restaurant  and  in  the  street." 

Life:  " It  is  delightful,  .  .  .  sparkling  from  beginning  to 
end.  Full  of  good-natured  satire  and  thoroughly  original." 

Boston  Transcript :  "It  is  apt  to  amuse  even  his  subjects. 
It  is  droll." 

PttbKc  Opinion  :  "Mr.  Townsend  was  just  the  man  to  write 
this  book." 

Independent  .•   "All  the  chapters  are  joyfully  amusing." 

Argonaut:  "Just  the  sort  of  a  novel  to  take  a  summer- 
ing, .  .  .  light,  comic  and  clean." 

Criterion  :  "  Mr.  Townsend,  who  made  his  reputation  with 
'Chimmie  Fadden,'  is  doing  more  dignified  work  with  the 
same  sense  of  humor  and  keen  observation." 

San  Francisco  Bulletin  :  "Altogether  fascinating  and  infi- 
nitely more  typical  of  real  life  in  New  York  than  '  Chimmie  * 
ever  dared  to  be.  Hurrah  for  Townsend  1  " 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


«  Capital  stories,  notably  weU  written."— Philadelphia.  Prut. 


TIOBA 


BY  ARTHUR  COLTON 

With,  a  Frontispiece  by  A.  B.  Frost  ^ 

I2mo,  $1.25 

Mr.  Colton  here  depicts  a  gallery  of  very  varied  Americans. 
He  is  already  in  the  front  rank  of  American  story-tellers,  and 
these  tales  add  to  his  reputation.  Tioba  was  a  mountain  which 
meant  well  but  was  mistaken. 

Bookman  :  "He  is  always  the  artist  observer,  adding  stroke 
upon  stroke  with  the  surest  of  sure  pens,  ...  an  author  who 
recalls  the  old  traditions  that  there  were  once  such  things  as 
good  writing  and  good  story-telling." 

JV.  y.  Tribune:  "The  eleven  stories  are  varied  and  inter-- 
esting.  .  .  .  There  is  serious  thought  as  well  as  good  art  in  this 
book  ;  there  is  individuality  also,  and  we  gladly  commend  it." 

A7".  Y.  Evening  Post :  "Mr.  Colton  rarely  fails  to  strike  the 
reader's  fancy  by  his  unexpected  and  ingenious  turns  of  thought 
and  his  quaint  way  of  putting  things." 

A7.  Y.  Sun:  "These  stories  are  all  worth  while."     *' 

A^.  Y.  Times'  Saturday  Review:  "Most  of  these  tales  are 
excellent." 

Boston  Advertiser:  "The  distinctive  feature  in  Mr.  Col- 
ton's  stories  is  his  sane  and  sympathetic  treatment  of  men  not 
patterns  of  virtue  or  monsters  of  iniquity,  but  red-blooded 
humans." 

Chicago  Post :  "  Crisp  dialogue,  repressed  humor,  and  pleas- 
ant sympathy. " 

Outlook  :  ' '  Eleven  stories  of  good  literary  quality,  delicate 
humor,  and  subtle  comprehension  of  human  nature."  .; 

Argonant :  "  They  have  originality  of  treatment,  with  a  style 
that  is  free,  graphic  and  direct,  simple  in  manner,  yet  unmis- 
takably literary  in  quality." 

Providence  Journal :  "  Distinctly  above  the  average.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Colton  has  a  terse  and  vivid  style,  and  a  rather  remarkable 
faculty  of  engaging  the  close  attention  of  the  reader.  .  .  .  His 
work  shows  genuine  artistic  feeling  and  clear  insight  into  human 
nature — two  qualities  frequently  lacking  in  modern  fiction,  long 
or  short." 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 

V.'OJ 


'     2d  impression  of  "  a  novel  of  marked  power,  great  originality, 
and  intense  interest."— Buffalo  Commercial. 

Owen's  RED-HEADED   GILL-$i.so 

Red-Headed  Gill  is  a  splendid  young  country  gentlewoman  of 
Cornwall.  Under  a  weird  East  Indian  influence,  she  is  forced  to  live 
over  again  part  of  the  life  of  a  beauty  of  the  days  of  Queen  Bess— 
the  famous  Gill  Red-Head. 

N.  Y.  Sun  :  "  The  author  has  created  a  charming  girl  whom  the 
reader  will  watch  with  interest  to  the  end.  She  manages  to  trans- 
port her  back  into  the  life  of  her  Tudor  ancestress  over  and  again 
naturally,  and  with  great  effect." 

N.  Y.  Times  Saturday  Review :  "The  reader's  attention  is  at  once 
enlisted,  and  it  is  not  allowed  to  flag." 

N.  Y.  Tribune:  ••  A  very  striking  figure  is  the  beautiful  but  stub- 
born Gillian." 

Book  News :  "  There  is  much  originality  and  humor." 


"Something  more  than  an  historical  romance  pure 
and  simple  ...  a  really  vivid  and  at  the  same  time 
conscientious  sketch  of  the  last  years  of  Peter  the 
Great." Dial. 

Hope's  (G.)  TRIUMPH  OF  COUNT 
OSTERMANN-$i.so 

Count  Ostermann,  the  one  incorruptible  man  in  Peter  the  Great's 
court,  is  a  most  interesting  historical  figure.  His  brave  struggle  to 
carry  out  Peter's  reforms  in  a  way  recalls  Hamilton's  struggles  with 
the  Presidents  that  followed  Washington.  The  story  of  Ostermann's 
public  life  and  his  strange  romantic  marriage  is  told  in  this  terse 
and  earnest  novel. 

Times'*  Saturday  Review :  "  It  is  well  written  and  interesting 
...  an  excellent  picture  is  given  of  the  savage  Russia  of  the 
early  eighteenth  century,  and  the  reader  gets  a  good  impression  of 
Peter  the  Great." 

Providence  Journal:  "  The  tale  has  an  exciting  plot  which  keeps 
the  reader's  interest,  and  contains  at  the  same  time  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  times." 

Philadelphia  Press :  "Good  work  .  .  .  distinctly  well  written, 
In  spirited  style." 


HENRY  HOLT  &  CO. 


"  Clever  versified  and  prose  parodies  .  .  .  fall  of  good  tilings."-. 
Boston  Transcript. 

BORROWED  PLUMES 

By  OWEN  SEAMAN,  author  of  "  The  Battle  of  the  Bays" 
Rubricated  title,  gilt  top.     i6mo.     $1.25 

A  volume  of  twenty-two  parodies,  including  the  Elizabeths  of  the 
Letters  and  the  German  Garden,  ''John  Oliver  Hobbes,"  Ellen  Thor- 
neycroft  Fowler,  Hall  Caine,  Marie  Corelli,  "Mr.  Dooley,"  Henry 
Harland,  Hewlett,  Meredith,  Lubbock,  Henry  James,  Maeterlinck, 
G.  Bernard  Shaw,  Stephen  Phillips,  etc.,  etc. 

"He  delights  us  without  recalling  any  master  of  the  art  [parody] 
whatever.  If  we  think  of  Thackeray  or  Bret  Harte  in  perusing  this 
little  volume,  it  is  only  to  reflect  that  they  would,  in  all  probability, 
have  gladly  taken  him  into  their  company.  .  .  .  Why  he  could  not 
have  written  all  of  the  works  of  the  authors  he  parodies  it  is  difficult 
to  see,  for  he  seems  invariably  to  get  inside  of  them,  to  write  as  though 
with  their  hands  and  from  their  brains." — New  York  Tribune. 

"  He  hits  off  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  some  of  the  best  writers 
of  the  day.  He  imitates  with  wit  and  skill." — Critic. 

"Capital  fooling  .  .  .  remarkably  clever  caricatures.  He  repro- 
duces the  tricks  of  manner  of  all  his  .victims  with  a  measure  of  skill 
which  is  flattering  to  them,  as  it  shows  he  has  studied  them  and  thinks 
them  worth  studying,  and  most  entertaining  to  the  sophisticated 
reader." — New  York  Times'  Saturday  Review. 

"A  series  of  excellent  burlesques  and  parodies.  .  .  .  Never  have 
the  solemn  platitudes  of  Marie  Corelli.  the  extravagances  of  John 
Oliver  Hobbes,  the  verbal  contortions  of  George  Meredith,  the  self- 
mocking  paradoxes  of  Bernard  Shaw,  and  the  simpering  common- 
places of  Sir  John  Lubbock,  been  hit  off  with  a  nicer  art  or  a  serener 
wit."— New  York  Herald. 

"Worthy  of  the  best  traditions  of  its  peculiar  and  difficult  art  in 
English  letters." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"Not  only  fun,  it  is  also  delicate  literary  criticism." — Dial. 

"Every  paragraph,  every  line  reflects  the  diction  and  personality 
of  the  victim  of  the  moment  .  .  .  parody  at  its  best." — Chicago  Post. 

"  Amusing  and  decidedly  witty." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Touched  with  a  distinction  that  is  somewhat  rare  in  the  field  of 
modern  parody.  A  corrective  in  the  matter  of  popular  taste." — 
Baltimore  News. 

"  Parody  refined  to  the  degree  that  it  becomes  originality." — Pub- 
lic Opinion. 

"  Excellently  done." — San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

"He  is  as  clever  a  cartoonist  with  his  pen  as  Thomas  Nast  with 
his  pencil." — Portland  (Me.)  Press. 

HENRY   HOLT  &  CO.      8 

z  'oa 


Impression 
Of  a  Favorite  Humorous  Novel 

HER    L/VDYSHIP'S   ELEPHANT 

By  DAVID  DWIGHT   WELLS 
With  a  Cover  by  NICHOLSON.     i2mo.    $1.25. 


A  very  humorous  story,  dealing  with  English  society, 
growing  out  of  certain  experiences  of  the  author  while  a 
member  of  our  Embassy  in  London.  The  elephant's 
experiences,  also,  are  based  on  facts. 

The  Nation :  "  He  is  probably  funny  because  he  cannot 
help  it." 

Boston  Transcript:  "  The  story  is  on  the  order  of  Frank 
Stockton's  cieverest  work/* 

New  York  Tribune :  4 '  Mr.  Wells  allows  his  sense  of 
humor  to  play  about  the  personalities  of  half  a  dozen  men 
and  women  whose  lives,  for  a  few,  brief,  extraordinary 
days,  are  inextricably  intertwined  with  the  life  of  the 
aforesaid  monarch  of  the  jungle.  .  .  Smacks  of  fun  which 
can  be  created  by  clever  actors  placed  in  excruciatingly 
droll  situations." 

New  York  Commercial  Advertiser  :  "A  really  delicious 
chain  of  absurdities  .  .  .  exceedingly  amusing." 

Chicago  Evening  Post :      "An  instantaneous  success." 

Buffalo  Express:  "  So  amusing  is  the  book  that  the 
reader  is  almost  too  tired  to  laugh  when  the  elephant  puts 
in  his  appearance." 

Henry    Holt   and    Company 

PUBLISHERS  NSW    YORK 

VI  '03. 


Three  Novels  by  ANTHONY  HOPE 

With  Illustrations  by 

C.  D.  GIBSON  and  H.  C.  CHRISTY 

iamo.    $1.50  each. 
55th  Impression  of 

THE  PRISONER  OF  ZENDA 

With  five  full-page  illustrations  by  CHARLES  DANA  GIBSON,  and  a  view 
and  plan  of  the  castle  by  HOWARD  INCH. 

Critic  :  "  A  glorious  story,  which  cannot  be  too  warmly  recommended  to 
all  who  love  a  tale  that  stirs  the  blood.  Perhaps  not  the  least  among  its 
many  good  qualities  is  the  fact  that  its  chivalry  is  of  the  nineteenth,  not  of 
the  sixteenth  century ;  that  it  is  a  tale  of  brave  men  and  true,  and  of  a  fair 
woman  of  to-day." 

2oth  Impression  of 

RUPERT  OF  HENTZAU 

A  Sequel    to   "  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda." 

With  eight  full-page  illustrations  by  CHARLES  DANA  GIBSON. 

Critic:     "Better  than  'The  Prisoner  of  Zenda.'" 

E,  A .  Dithmar  in  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review  :  "  Delightfully 
stirring  and  irresponsible,  ...  a  sequel  for  a  wonder  as  vigorous  and 
powerful  as  its  original  ...  It  seems  to  bring  romance  to  life  again." 

Life  :  "A  sequel  to  '  Zenda '  which  does  not  let  down  one  bit  the  high 
standard  of  chivalrous  love  which  was  the  charm  of  that  romance  .  .  These 
4  Zenda '  stories  have  added  a  distinctly  modern  value  to  what  men  and 
women  mean  by  the  'sense  of  honor.'  " 

i8th  Impression  of 

THE  DOLLY  DIALOGUES 

Including   the    four     additional    dialogues.     With  eight  full-page 
illustrations.     By  H.  C.  CHRISTY. 

Boston  Transcript:  "Characterized  by  delicious  drollery...  Beneath 
the  surface  play  of  words  lies  a  tragi-comedy  of  life  .  .  .  There  is  infinite 
2Uggestioi  in  every  line." 


Uniform  with  the  above,  but  without  illustrations 

FATHER  STAFFORD.    By  Anthony  Hope 

7th  Impression, 


Literary  World:     "  It  has  all  the  quality  of  his  later  work,  the  fun,  the 
audacity,  the  epigrammatic  touch,  the  clearly  accentuated  characters." 

Other  Books  by  Anthony  Hope 

With  Frontispieces.     i8mo.     jrjr.  each. 

The  Indiscretion  of  the  Duchess.    i2th  Impression 

A  Man  of  Mark,    nth  Impression 

A  Change  of  Air.    ioth  Impression 

Sport  Royal  and  other  Stories.  $th  Impression 

Henry    Holt    and    Company 

PUBLISHERS  NEW 

VI  '03. 


BY  ANTHONY  HOPE 

AUTHOR  OF  THE   PRISONER  OF  ZENDA 
THE  INDISCRETION  OF  THE  DUCHESS 

With  frontispiece  by  WECHSLER.     -ivih  Impression.    i8mo.    750, 

Atlantic  Monthly  :  "  Is  as  brimful  of  incidents,  as  rapid  in  move- 
ment, and  as  entertainingly  improbable  [as  '  Zenda  ']....  Will  be 
read  at  a  sitting  by  a  multitude  of  romance  lovers." 

Dial:  "  Displays  a  piquant  ingenuity  of  invention.  It  is  all  very 
impossible  and  very  fascinating.  .  .  .  The  reader  is  kept  constantly 
alert  for  new  developments,  which  are  never  quite  what  is  antici- 
pated. Like  all  the  rest  of  the  author's  books,  it  provides  capital 
entertainment." 

Nation  :  "  Told  with  an  old-time  air  of  romance  that  gives  the 
fascination  of  an  earlier  day;  an  air  of  good  faith,  almost  of  religious 
chivalry,  gives  reality  to  its  extravagance,  ,  ,  .  Marks  Mr,  Hope  as 
a  wit,  if  he  were  not  a  romancer  M 

A  MAN  OF  MARK 

With  frontispiece  by  WKCHSLER.  gth  Impression.  iSmo.  750. 
Life :  "  More  plentifully  charged  with  humor,  and  the  plot  is 
every  whit  as  original  as  that  of  Zenda.  .  .  .  The  whole  game  of 
playing  at  revolution  is  pictured  with  such  nearness  and  intimacy 
of  view  that  the  wildest  things  happen  as  though  they  were  every- 
day occurrences.  .  .  .  The  charmingly  wicked  Christina  is  equal  to 
anything  that  Mr.  Hope  has  done,  with  the  possible  exception  of  the 
always  piquant  Dolly." 

THE  DOLLY  DIALOGUES 

With  frontispiece  by  RACKHAM.    gtk  Impression.     iSmo.    750. 
Boston  Transcript :  "  Characterized  by  a  delicious  drollery;  .  .  . 
beneath  the  surface  play  of  words  lies  a  tragi-comedy  of  life.  .  .  . 
There  is  infinite  suggestion  in  every  line.1' 

A  CHANGE  OF  AIR 

With  portrait  and  notice  of  the  author,    gth  Impression.    x8mo. 

75C. 

New  York  Times:  "A  highly  clever  performance,  with  little 
touches  that  recall  both  Balzac  and  Meredith.  ...  Is  endowed  with 
exceeding  originality." 

SPORT  ROYAL,  and  Other  Stories 

With  frontispiece  by  W.  B.  RUSSELL.  $th  Impression.   iSmo.  750. 
Atlantic  Monthly:  "  The  leading  tale,  which  fills  half  the  book, 
is  in  its  author's  lightest  and  most  entertaining  vein." 

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.    2e 

iv '99 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


100m-8,'65  (F6282s8)2373 


TORED  AT  NRLF 


2106  00212  4524 


